


Occupational Hazard

by hellbend



Category: A3! (Anime), A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Comfort/Angst, Everyone Is Gay, Gen, Mentions of Character Death, Murder Mystery, Possible Character Death, Slice of Life, Suspense, Thriller, dark themes, itaru is bisexual, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbend/pseuds/hellbend
Summary: Being a detective comes with its fair share of risks, tragedies, life-threatening dangers, and shenanigans. It's not your classic 9 - 5 job, you need to get your hands dirty a lot, you have to run into dead ends while you're on the job, you have to navigate around the lies during interrogations. And that’s all we outsiders know about it.So what makes it all worth it? Each of them have a different reason. We're here to investigate.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	1. Culprit: Money

**Author's Note:**

> \- I'm going to be honest: it's kind of plotless and I'm figuring it out as I go. I just saw my mutual making a headcanon and this story was born out of that. It was quite fun to write, actually. 
> 
> \- I'm sorry for the potential / minor character deaths (I won't go into detail about them when the time comes, but they will be present.)
> 
> \- also: job-typical violence, suspense, possible gun violence as well.
> 
> \- PLEASE EXERCISE READER DISCRETION! Tags may be subject to change as the story progresses, so please keep a look out for new tags each time I update. 
> 
> \- excuse my typos i was so excited to write and publish but i will proofread later

It is the night of the eclipse, and the moon has turned into a blood stain in the sky. There is a prickling texture to the wind as it blows, whistling gently as it files through the lit city streets. In the carpark, in front of a white-stained-yellow building stands Itaru Chigasaki, leaning against one of the street lamps with his mouth moulded over a lollipop. His eyes are focused on nothing in particular, crunching on his lollipop in time to the clicking of the lighter.

Homare Arisugawa is leaning against a car, clicking the lighter on and off, a thoughtful expression on his face. Even from a distance, anyone can sense the wheels turning in his head. Even in the silence, with his thoughts written in his eyes, his presence is the loudest. Given his characteristic flair and that permanent flourish that comes as an instinct, it is not surprising that Itaru can feel the intensity of his perplexity from a few feet away. 

The door to the building opens, spilling the sickly yellow light of the lobby onto the faded grey steps as another boy joins the scene. With his skirt fluttering in the breeze and the wind picking up his hair, the elements of nature at work that night seem to do nothing but illustrate the careful precision and elegance with which he carries himself. 

Despite only holding two cups of coffee and hastily handing each one to the men waiting in the carpark, his motion is tired and his expression is dim - like he’s done this millions of times before, and his shoulders seem to droop the slightest, like they’re carrying the weight of unmet expectations. More his, than anyone else’s. 

“You’re late,” Itaru says, neither a hint of contempt nor impatience in his tone. Just a statement. 

The young boy, by the name of Yuki, scoffs. His gesture is one of contempt _and_ impatience. “If it bothers you much, _you_ go and get your own coffee,” He jabs. 

“No way, you’re the intern, aren’t you?” Itaru retorts, not unkindly. There’s always something a little jovial about him. 

“When can I follow you on one of your investigations?” Yuki asks, turning this question to Homare, when he sees no value in Itaru’s inputs. 

“Patience is a virtue, dear Yuki,” Homare responds, with a gentle smile but a faraway look on his face. “You are but a bud, and you must weather the elements before it’s decided that you bloom for good - “ He had this animated way of talking, using smooth and seemingly rehearsed but, in fact, natural hand gestures to underscore his speech. Yuki was staring at him with an unimpressed expression. 

“The elements in question being your university degree,” Homare concludes, in a practical manner as he knocks a knuckle gently on Yuki’s scalp. “And the months of training before you qualify for the entrance exam, the target practice, getting your gun license - “ 

“But I can follow you on your stakeouts, can’t I?” Yuki inquires innocently, as he clasps his hands behind his back and blinks at each of the investigators, and they both avoid making eye contact. 

Itaru stirs his coffee with the bare lollipop stick. “If your mom wants to pay us for babysitting, then sure. Be my guest.” He sees Yuki riling up, getting ready to respond and continues before the boy can make his statement. “No, I’m serious. I’ll let you come along, if your mom pays me for it.” 

“This is extortion,” Yuki snaps, but Itaru can see the vacant thoughtful expression in his eyes. 

“It’s a capitalist world,” Itaru explains, pointing the lollipop stick in Yuki’s direction purposefully. “You want the service, you pay the amount for it. Nothing comes for free, kid.” Bitterly, before either one of them could notice his scowl, he took a swig of his coffee and diverted his attention to the street. 

He had bad associations with money, but it was everywhere. It had taken a form of its own - like invisible mist and humanity was simply wading through it, blind to its effects and intoxicated by its scent. Like a siren, beckoning a sailor to his own demise, money was an evil that humanity had created of its own will, and refused to collectively realise the vice grip it had on society. There was no nicer way to explain it - it was like a parasite that was growing bigger by the day. 

At this time now, 4 years ago, Itaru would have been bent over a desk, with a promise of a high-paying job - that could settle his rent, the month’s necessities and pay for his hobbies - hanging over his head, like a carrot on a string in front of a horse. No matter how overworked he was, his studies managed to wear him down to the nerves, grinding all the way until it hit his bone and shot a jolt of fatigue throughout his body. 

All of that just to be told by his parents that his Arts’ degree in Psychology would amount to nothing because it wouldn’t get him a respectable job. They wanted to push him to be a pilot, to save “their last shred of dignity”, they claimed, not even bothering to hide their disappointment in their son, despite him having graduated well. The need for money had driven his relationship with his parents into the ground. 

All that just for numbers on an ATM screen and pieces of folded papers in small leather bags. 

As he raises his cup for another sip and is met with the sight of its bare interior, he feels some strange bitter aftertaste of the memories burst unpleasantly on his tongue. 

“What’s wrong?” Yuki asks, frowning. “Is the coffee not good or something?” 

“No, it’s fine.” He crumples the paper cup, with a little more ferocity than necessary. “When are you supposed to leave for home?” 

“Whenever I want,” Yuki says, dismissively. “I’m not a child, you know. You don’t have to feel responsibility for me.” 

“I don’t,” Itaru clarifies, truthfully. “I was just wondering if you could run down to the supermarket and get me chips.” 

Homare side-eyes him, frowning. “Characteristically, that’s an awfully irresponsible request from you, dear Itaru - sending a child out to buy junk food while you’re on the job in the middle of the night.” His words aren’t cutting, but they drop a hint and Itaru shrugs going back to chewing the plastic stick in boredom. 

“I’m not a child,” Yuki cuts in, just as Itaru predicted, “and I’ll buy your chips for you.” A subtle but triumphant smirk takes over his juvenile face. “If I get paid for it. My services aren’t free of charge just, as you mentioned before, like everything else in the world.” 

Irritation spikes the back of Itaru’s head but dies down quickly. He somehow ends up smiling. “Well played, kid.” 

The click of the door opening is deafening in this quiet night, and prompts them all to turn towards the agency building just as Azami walks out. He’s shed his formal blazer that he usually wears when he’s working, leaving him in his shirt and jeans as he pulls his hair back into a ponytail. 

Except this time, he doesn’t immediately make a move for his bicycle. He walks over to them. “There you guys are,” He says in greeting and his tone piques their collective interest. He dismissively throws his thumb over his shoulder, in direction of the agency building. “I couldn’t find you so I just left the files on your desk. You might want to check them out.” 

“A new case?” Itaru asks, as he feels the slightest trickle of adrenaline in his system. The glint in Homare’s eyes as he regards Azami betrays his own anticipation.

“I don’t know,” Azami concludes. “But it looked important.” He throws a leg over the body of his bicycle as he settles into the seat and after a few seconds of fiddling with the gear he turns over his shoulder to shout one last instruction at the three of them before he pedals off. 

_“Also, Sakyo told me to tell you to stop freeloading and blowing the budget on junk food or he’ll cut your pay.”_

Itaru and Homare share a smile, without even looking at each other as Yuki rolls his eyes and follows them upstairs. 

* * *

  
  


The cold is worse in the morning, or so Itaru feels as he drives down the deserted road, loose gravel and ice crunching under his tires. Homare yawns in the seat next to him, just as disgruntled at having to be up at such an ungodly hour in the morning but some cases require it and this is one of those cases. Regardless, Itaru hadn’t slept that well the previous night either, so the arrival of daylight was a relief. 

There is a thump as Homare leans his head on the window, and opens up the Minagi case file. “So, to go over this again,” He begins, pausing to yawn, “Tsuzuru went missing two weeks ago, when he was driving out from his home to the airport. His parents only realised a week ago when they got a call from his university, saying he hadn’t shown up for his registration or attended any classes. There is still an ongoing search but they haven’t found any trace of him. Standard missing child case.”

“Yeah,” Itaru responds. “Thank you for the brilliant exposition, Mr Arisugawa. I think that clears up for our readers why we’re here in a deserted woods at the ass crack of dawn.” 

“What I don’t get is,” Homare continues, “what we have to do with it. They haven’t finished the search, haven’t they? We’re not the first responders. That’s for the police, who are still on the job. We’re only called for extreme cases that the police can’t handle. What’s so difficult about this one?” 

“He just vanished,” Itaru says. “You don’t think that’s a little bit suspicious and out of the ordinary?” He drops his voice a little lower, feeling the prickling sensation of anxiety on the back of his neck. “And the mother suspects her son was murdered. The local police don’t even know we’re on the case. Heck, I’m not sure even her husband knows.” 

Homare’s eyes soften, and with that remnant grogginess, it seems like a kind of sadness takes hold of his expression. Not his own, Itaru knows. Someone else’s. Homare is empathic and compassionate, perhaps to a fault. 

“Poor lady,” Homare says, finally, his voice weighted with the same sadness that’s taken over his face. “To be faced with no option than to contact us, because the police wouldn’t believe her and her family would deem her paranoid.” 

Itaru listens intently, as he always does when Homare speaks like that - in a sort of haunted tone that makes his voice sound not like his own. Like the vessel of an Oracle of some sort, it always looks like a different person speaks through Homare when he gets like this - with that vacant look in his eyes and a voice that seems to work on autopilot. Itaru assumes it is Homare’s empathy, and it seems as though Homare can switch his professional tone with his emotional one. 

He reads people a little too well, it’s almost scary. He does it without realising too, claiming his bluntness and deep understanding is simply his manner of thinking critically - that his logic has inhibited his empathy, and his straightforward approaches to all of his hunches are a result of that. Itaru thinks quite the opposite - it’s his kind nature that makes Homare good at what he does. He knows to talk to people and reach out to them in a way that can be easily detected as genuine, which is why he’s opened up to, indulged and progresses smoother during interrogations. 

Homare wasn’t Itaru’s first choice for a partner, but they work just fine together. Homare is surprisingly cooperative and also perceptive. He sees things that any average detective wouldn’t be able to, and his instinct for the job is sharp and precise - like an arrow. Homare laughs and says he’s simply “mastered the art of thinking critically” but Itaru knows it’s more than that. 

Homare is like a bloodhound - once he catches the scent in a case, he knows how to chase it down.

That’s why Itaru likes having him around, though he’s sure he’s more Homare’s assistant than the other way around. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel absently as Homare unfolds a large map of the area and surveys the cross marks they’d made the night before - places that they’d direct their scrutiny to before anywhere else. 

This region is nothing but forest, save for a community school, a police station and a small town square around which residential buildings are clustered. Along the radius from the centre, there are small houses littered throughout the area, enveloped in vegetation, with living spaces cut into the greenery like artificial glades. 

Azami is already at the airport, Tsuzuru’s destination before he vanished, and asking some subtle questions of his own. He’s due to call them any minute now, with the relevant intel. Until then, they’re driving down to the Minagi residence. As a formality, they’ll have to ask them the same questions a second time - “just to be sure” and “to ensure consistency”, as it is claimed. 

Homare’s phone rings just that moment and he answers promptly. Over the drone of the engine and the cracking of ice under tyres, Homare’s voice is lost to the din as Itaru struggles and rummages inside his own brain to pull out what he calls his “game face”. There’s no denying the fatigue, especially with the headache that’s creeping up on him because he forgot to have his coffee in the morning. 

“Azami asked. Tsuzuru didn’t make it to the airport,” Homare informs him, once he hangs up. “Which would suggest he went missing on the way there.” 

“We can drive the route after we visit his mother,” Itaru suggests, “If there’s any clue what happened to him, it’ll most likely be along that road.” Homare hums his agreement.

  
  


These cases - that require them to deal closely with family - are the stickiest to navigate. Itaru doesn’t like to get tangled in the emotions that come with the bad news (if there is any, in this one). There’s a certain thrill to it, sure, but there’s also other associations with finding the answer and solving the mystery that he wishes he didn’t have to take responsibility for. Over time, he’s learned to be dispassionate when dealing with these matters. 

But sometimes, he wonders, would it be impossible for him to differentiate when it’s appropriate for him to be compassionate or dispassionate? The nature of this world is such that it can wear down your mercy, and take your humanity with it. And this job requires him to get his hands dirty quite a lot. 

He feels pretty worn down.

* * *

  
  


Tsuzuru never made it to the airport. He and his car have both seemingly vanished into thin air. He’s described by all the interviewees as a kind and diligent boy - worked lots of jobs to help make ends meet, came to his classes on time, travelled distances to do the odd chore for the townspeople just for a little money. He was a pretty well-known face, by the looks of it. A friend of the neighbourhood, as Homare likes to frame it.

This feels all for naught, Itaru thinks to himself grumpily. But he quickly stubs out that thought. The whole point now is to consider any possibility at all. _It’s harder to get in the zone today_ , he thinks. 

It’s impossible for anyone to be universally loved. Admiration and affection are things that can be faked - feelings like envy, and contempt aren’t. Sure, those are possibly childish motivations for inflicting harm but they’re still valid reasons - reasons that Itaru decides he has to keep in mind throughout the entirety of the current investigation. It’s possible for someone to admire and envy Tsuzuru simultaneously, but the problem would be finding out who it is. 

He can’t possibly interview every townsperson. He can’t leave this case unanswered either.

He chews on his lip as he thinks this, as Homare absently colours out another one of their chosen destinations on the map. They’re driving down at a leisurely pace, following the route to the airport that Tsuzuru would have taken. It’s mostly deserted - these townspeople clearly don’t travel much and even if they do, they do so by road. 

Something catches his eye and makes him slam the brake pedal. 

There’s a thump as they’re both thrown forward in their seats and flung back by their seatbelts. As Homare groans and nurses his head, Itaru rips off his seatbelt and throws open his door, stepping out into the harsh cold. The chill bites at him and as he breathes heavily, his breath mists in front of him. 

But his vision is rooted to the sight in front of him. 

In the perfectly uniform shrubbery that lines the road, there’s a patch that’s been flattened. It doesn’t seem significant, and Itaru reconsiders his suspicion but in a forest so pristine, it’s still strange to find something like this. Not like any forest animal could have done it either - the inconsistency in vegetation is too large for a deer or a fox or even a boar.

He absently kicks the snow off and is met with a sharp jab of broken twig in his legs. The shrub lies as nothing but an impression on the ground, its branches hanging by nothing but a string of bark. 

“Did you find something?” 

Homare walks up to him, hands in the pocket of his trench coat. His voice is half-muffled by the scarf around his neck. He notices the scene and goes, “Ah.” 

“I don’t think an animal could do this,” Itaru claims, from where he’s crouched next to the shrubbery. “What do you think, Homare?”

“I think you’re quite right, Itaru.” Homare’s voice is distant, due to him having moved away. He’s crouched a few metres away, hands moving across the ground as he picks at the ice with his credit card. A few chunks fall away, clinking like thin glass and Homare points at the ground purposefully. “It wasn’t an animal.” 

Itaru gets up and walks over, his heart skipping a beat as he surveys the broken ice and the exposed bit of tar under it.

There are tyre tracks on the ground. 

“The day Tsuzuru left,” Itaru begins as Homare, already sensing the question, pulls out his phone and clicks on the Weather app, “what was the weather forecast?” 

“It was the first snow of the season,” Homare responds. “It’s been consistently snowing a little everyday since then. It’s the coldest winter we’ve had in a while.” He picks at the blemished tar thoughtfully. “I surveyed the Minagis’ garage before we left. The tyre marks match the ones used on Tsuzuru’s car.”

“So it was an accident?” Itaru guesses, not very confidently. The ice had formed above the skid marks, which meant the road had been pretty safe for driving at the time. Even if it had been an accident, where was the car and where was Tsuzuru? 

“Don’t think so,” Homare responds. He gets up and walks a circle around in the middle of the road, slowly, forcefully and deliberately kicking at the ice with his heels, his gesture throwing up chunks of snow and sending little shards of ice flying. 

“I’m calling Azami,” Itaru announces, taking out his phone. 

Homare stops him abruptly, looking up from the ground. “No, wait! Look here.” He’s pointing at more tyre tracks. 

“Yes, what about them?” 

Homare glances at Itaru. “Look closer! These are different!” He clutches Itaru’s shoulder, dramatically. 

“So… there were two?” Itaru tries again. 

“Clearly.” 

“So, we just have to find the other driver. They’d probably know what happened to Tsuzuru,” Itaru concludes. 

Homare stands. “Yes, but first, I want to collect the incident reports from the local police station. If there was an accident, it should have been reported. If it wasn’t…” 

Itaru gulps, and looks at the strewn snow and ice on the ground, along with their footprints, little indentations on the snow. Homare doesn’t need to finish the sentence, he can do it himself. 

If it wasn’t reported, it meant that there would most likely have been a fatality - something nobody liked to take responsibility for. 

There was a high chance that Tsuzuru was already dead - now, it was a matter of confirming that suspicion and finding his body. 

They drive back to town, flash their ID cards at the police station and obtain a file of photocopied incident logs spanning from 3 days before Tsuzuru left for the airport to yesterday. After having checked the towing services, and coming up with no report of any accident either, the empty space under that fateful date cemented their suspicions. 

“We really have to find that other driver,” Itaru affirms. 

* * *

  
  


A fall from grace. The chasm looms before her as she sits in the interrogation room, bent over the table, a wrist handcuffed to the table leg. 

The chasm looks back at her, like a mirror, reflecting her stricken face, shouting back the same words as her husband had two hours ago (something she can no longer remember), and her 7 year old son’s confused face over her husband’s shoulder as they both disappeared into the distance. The pages of a valuable lucrative contract burning, the dilapidated and worn building of her company in the years to come. 

There are really some times, one can see the future. When your life comes to a standstill and when you’re in a situation you can’t get out of - when it’s apparent that your fate is no longer in your hands. It was all this time, and you kneaded it - like clay - carelessly into something that took the shape of your worst fear. 

With her hair falling around her face like a curtain, it shields the sight of her stunned eyes and trembling lips. 

They came in multiple times, to ask her the same questions again and again. The same interrogation at least, five, six, seven different times in a tone and manner identical to every last attempt. Like she was stuck in a damn time loop, that she wouldn’t get out of unless she confessed - told them what they were expecting to hear.

But she’d told them the truth, she assured herself. But she wasn’t sure of what was the truth anymore. What her ‘truth’ was anyway - the hours were blurring together. She was speaking out of muscle memory. 

There was a click as the door opened again, but this time, a different person walks in. “Jeez,” He sighs, lazily, hooking a finger onto his tie and pulling it a little loose. “Couldn’t leave me alone to game for ten minutes.” 

He pulled the chair out from across her and sat himself down. “Itaru Chigasaki,” He introduces himself, “You can just call me Itaru. I don’t care about formalities. Let’s get this over with quickly, so we can both go home.” He smiles at her then, kindly, her fatigue reflected in his expression that makes the professional distance seem like nothing. She can sense understanding in his gaze before he blinks slowly and shifts into a more cordial posture. 

“I’ve already told you everything you need to know,” She responds. “I told you. I didn’t do anything. I was framed.” 

“Yes, you’ve said this a number of times.” Itaru places a hand on his chin, propped up by the elbow, in a slow and careless manner. _Is this guy for real?_ She wants to scoff at him. He doesn’t look at all serious about being here. But he also seems the kindest out of the three people that have investigated so far. 

“But I’m not here to interrogate you about the gun in your dash,” He says, and immediately she feels the rug go out from underneath her. He leans forward, a serious look on his face. “I’m here to interrogate you about the accident you were in two-and-a-half weeks ago, after which a young boy by the name of Tsuzuru Minagi has been missing.” 

“I’ve already answered to the police about this a week back,” She replies, “I wasn’t even in the country at the time. I was on a business trip in India.” 

“Yes, so the evidence claims.” 

She felt impatience flare up into anger at his lax response. “What are you _talking_ about? Isn’t your whole job about finding the right evidence and catching criminals? I’m not a criminal and I have the evidence to prove my leave. Just ask my - “ 

“I’ve talked to your lawyer prior to your arrest.” There’s no delay in the response. “Or rather, my colleague has. He confessed - the evidence was forged. He’s also in our custody, so he’s not going to be able to save you. You still have no real proof that suggests you were really in India. Which means… you’re still our prime suspect.” 

Her heartbeat skyrockets, her pulse snapping through her vein like bullets and fear stinging her nerves like acid. _He confessed? He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t sell her out. He wouldn’t dare to. He knew what would happen if_ \- 

She refused to let her panic show on her face. “What proof do you have that I did it? This is a pretty serious accusation.” 

“You’re right.” Itaru leans back in his chair. He frowns and closes his eyes. “They sent me in here to get that evidence from you, actually. I’m not sure I can really do that, so all you have to do is answer my questions honestly.” 

“I’ve answered all your - “ She can’t help half-shrieking. 

He puts up a finger, deliberately but impatiently, that silences her immediately. His presence fills the whole room, calm and collected and _oppressive_. It makes the humidity cling to her like saran wrap, pressing against her like a styrofoam packing cube would on a china doll. It makes her feel smaller, sinking under the weight of his words and tone. 

“You’ve answered theirs,” He corrects her, vaguely gesturing behind him at the door with his thumb. “ _My_ questions are different.” 

She swallows nervously. 

“Like, for example, where did you get your cool new car?” He leans forward, a childlike excitement in his eyes. His tone is suddenly harmless, genuinely curious. Of course he’d know that car was new - it was the first item to be investigated after the police found the gun. 

“It’s secondhand,” She responds, “I bought it at a garage just two streets down from my apartment.” 

He scrunches up his nose. “Secondhand? I’d assumed a big rich businesswoman like you would buy the latest racecar model or something.”

“That’s hardly practical.” She scoffs. “Besides, who doesn’t like to save a little money for the rainy days?” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But to digress for a moment here - “ A light blush comes over his cheeks. “I’ve been thinking of scrapping my car and selling it for parts. I love it, of course, but rent’s a little tight and I’m behind on it. You don’t happen to know a place, do you?” 

It seems like an odd request, but there really is only one place in the city. “Yeah, sure,” She agrees, “I’ll give you the address.” He, delightedly, pulled out a small notepad and pen and handed it to her. 

She writes it down and hands it back to him. 

He continues asking unimportant questions like that, turning the interrogation into a friendly chat. He doesn’t seem in any rush trying to draw a confession out of her either. He periodically expresses his boredom with the job, talks about his games, and even his ex-girlfriends and -boyfriends. There’s a knock on the door and he converses softly with the police officer and then they go back to talking. 

“A bunch of bad apples, the lot of them,” He says matter-of-factly. “I understand that relationships require time and commitment - “ He spat those two words out as if he tasted something bitter in them, “ - but I require time and commitment too. And I have a job that doesn’t really last your typical nine to five, and hobbies that I want time for.”

“Clearly, relationships aren’t for you.” 

“Exactly! I told my last one that I wasn’t programmed for dating, and he said I was making excuses to get out of getting serious. I mean, can you believe that?” 

Before he can respond, there’s another knock on the door and this time, he casts an apologetic glance at her and goes outside for a while, leaving her in silence. This interrogation has defied all of her expectations. 

There’s a niggling suspicion that, maybe, he’s just toying with her. He seems too kind to do it, though. _Or maybe that’s what he wants me to think_. A small thud follows this thought as she drops her head onto the table, her neck positioned like that of a lamb under the axe in a slaughterhouse. 

But the conversation has given her time. She needs to think, before he comes back. What can she do to get herself out of this? 

The door opens and he comes in again. “Sorry about that,” He says, smiling nervously at her. “I’m not usually one to keep a lady waiting, but duty calls, you know?” 

“I understand.” 

“Now, let’s talk about your car,” He begins, and his whole demeanour changes. That kind warmth in his eyes is extinguished immediately when they next make eye contact. Like a sandstorm over the dunes of a desert and the movement of the sun across the sky that changes the shadows, the planes of his face now have a newfound sharpness to them. 

Some instinct inside her - like a prey’s - screams for her to run. But there’s nowhere to run to. 

“You sent your car to be scrapped about three days after that accident happened,” He says, “The license plate is registered under your name, so you can’t deny that it wasn’t you. You weren’t in India that week, because the evidence was forged. After the accident, you didn’t request a towing service because - “

“Wait,” She starts, shakily. But he doesn’t wait. 

“ - a young man, by the name of Mr Furuichi, came to give his account that he actually offered to help fix your car. And he did fix your car. Except you weren’t in it. It was your boyfriend who was driving the car at the time - “ 

“Listen, I can - “ 

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Itaru says, “I’m not your husband or your child. Save the tears for them later when you confess your infidelity. I’m more concerned about the young mother who’s worried out of her mind about her missing son.” His voice, empty of kindness or mercy, cut into her like a scalpel, as he continued without restraint. 

“At the time of the accident, you were the one in the driver’s seat, because Mr Furuichi commented how your boyfriend had to adjust his seat before he drove away from his home - “ 

“I’d just lent it to him for the week.” 

“No, you were there, too,” Itaru continues, relentlessly. “You two stayed at the Forest Lodge for the night. The room was registered under his name, so that yours wouldn’t be on record but I asked the staff and they mentioned a woman and you fit that description. 

He glances at her, raising an eyebrow. “Where were you while your boyfriend and your car were at the Furuichi residence? Leaving you alone in the dark without a vehicle in the forest isn’t a gentlemanly or even humane thing to do. You wouldn’t have agreed to it, either.” 

The ground seems to be falling under her as he continues. “You were with Tsuzuru.”

He sighs, pinching his nose bridge. He sounds as tired as he looks. “You’ve made a pretty valiant attempt to cover up your tracks, which means you definitely have something to hide - something you don’t want to take responsibility for. Which means there was a fatality.” 

He slams his hand on the table, a dark look over his face, a certain shade of cruelty colouring his soft features. “You can lie to the police, but you can’t lie to me. They might have one day believed your ridiculous story, but I wouldn’t. That’s why they called me.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded photograph, which he placed on the table and smoothed out for her to see. “And conveniently, should you continue to protest, I happen to have this.” 

It was a photo of her - one that her boyfriend had taken - at the wheel, the trees a blur outside her window. 

“You’re trapped, darling,” Itaru concludes, “Just be glad it’s with me and not with the police.” 

She looked up at him through her tears. 

“I have a proposition,” He continues, pulling out a map of the forest from his pocket. “You tell me where you dumped Tsuzuru’s body. I’ll negotiate for your lawyer, so that you can at least get a fair trial.” 

Silence. 

“Listen, ma’am.” His voice is kind now, a drastic switch from the threatening tone he’d used on her a few seconds ago. “You have a lot to lose. I’m giving you the best way out, because my job aside, I - as a person - believe that justice isn’t dead. And with your family in the state it is right now, your lawyer is the next and only person who will stand by you through this process. If you’re not going to do it for Tsuzuru’s family, do it for yours - “ 

She snatched the pen out of his hand and hastily drew a cross over one of the many swamps. Like a drowning man finding a twig, this proposition could save her life. Even if it was from the last person she should be trusting.

“And don’t think about lying,” He warns her. “If we don’t find the body, you’re not getting your lawyer.” 

“I’m not lying,” She says, truthfully. 

He smiles at her. Genuinely. She can see him as a person now, not as a detective. His humanly fatigue, and worry written all over his face. “Pleasure working with you,” He says. She can sense it in his tone - he really means it. He might have faked the niceness before, but this time, his words are genuine. 

When he leaves, she puts her head down on the table and closes her eyes. She’s certain she’s going to be seeing that man’s face in her nightmares even years from now. 

* * *

  
  


A week later, Itaru and Homare enter a flower shop. 

Homare suggested buying the flowers and paying the Minagis a visit. On the television, the news of the upcoming court hearing of a famous businesswoman charged with murder is being relayed by an exhausted reporter. 

Tsuzuru Minagi wasn’t killed in the accident. He drowned. At the time of the car dumping, he was alive. The coroner’s report revealed that much. The bruises around his knuckles and abrasions on his palm suggested signs of struggle. He’d been locked inside the trunk of the car, where he’d kicked and screamed with all his might - which the murderer had conveniently left out of her recount of events and at the time, also disregarded. 

Homare was the one tasked with breaking the news to the family and handling the reactions after. He navigated them well, speaking to them slowly and calmly and then letting them see the body. 

Itaru is glad he didn’t have to do that. He did enough in the interrogation room, which had left him feeling fatigued for the next week. He rewarded himself with the 8 consecutive hours of gaming each day for the week that followed. 

He hates having to put on that second skin during interrogations - pretending to be someone he isn’t. It’s for the greater good, sure, but he’s not sure he will ever get used to it. The hours of gaming - a hobby that’s so deeply tied into his identity - feels like the only thing that can wash it off. Like pulling off a sticky mask and scraping off a disguise. 

“Yuki seems a little too happy to be tasked with going to a funeral,” Itaru comments later as they leave the shop, with Homare cradling a bouquet. 

“He didn’t look it?” It comes out as a question as Homare responds to Itaru’s previous statement. “He looked quite angry with it, actually.” 

“No, I’m fairly certain that’s his happy face.” Itaru shook his head. 

They got into the car, and began the lethargic drive back to the agency building. 

“So, you got all of that out of the scrapyard address?” Homare asks, referring to Itaru’s exposition in the interrogation room. “It’s only after your little monologue and the interrogation that I came to tell you about having succeeded in prying the same information out of her boyfriend, you know?” There’s a tinge of admiration to his voice. “And that bluff about having taken the lawyer into custody for forging evidence.” 

Itaru smiles. “Worked in my favour, didn’t it? Besides, a woman as rich as her would have the power to do anything - even buy evidence if she had to. I thought it was a well-played bluff.” 

“Indeed.” Homare’s smile mirrors Itaru’s - tired, but satisfied. The kind that concludes a case. “Though, I’m surprised he sold her out. With her being powerful and all that.”

“I’m not,” Itaru admits. “She’s rich. She’s got a lot of money, which also means she’s got a lot to lose. She was already under fire for that gun we found, it would have blemished her career even if she hadn’t murdered Tsuzuru. There’s a level of spite to her boyfriend taking the step to completely ruin it with his confession. To take a risk like that… I don't’ suppose they had a good relationship after the accident.” 

“Ah, well, I don’t suppose it’s any of our concern now.” 

Itaru hums in agreement. 

Money. Always money. The biggest evil, the breeding ground for envy, crime and violence. This woman had forfeited honesty, and mercy in the name of money when she dumped Tsuzuru in the river. Itaru can’t bear to think about her continuing to live her life without consequences while the Minagi family mourned.

No, capital punishment wasn’t the answer - it was clear the value of money exceeded that of a human life. For her, death would have been a mercy compared to losing her company. She didn’t deserve that. Whatever the outcome of the case, she will forever be associated with this murder. She would be rich, but she would never be able to shed the brand of a murderer. 

“You know, I think Azami deserves a pay raise,” Homare muses. 

Itaru smiles, agreeing immediately. Azami was their MVP this time round. “Yeah, he did a good job planting that gun in her car.”


	2. Walking Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- WARNINGS: mentions of death, dead bodies, horror, brief mentions of drugs  
> \- you know the drill: ignore my typos!!

Homare hates hospitals, this one more than any other. The smell of disinfectant is invasive, and stings his lungs. He’s sitting outside the morgue, absently flipping a coin over and over as he waits for the verdict. Itaru is sitting next to him, punching the buttons on his Nintendo ferociously, a permanent scowl on his face. Clearly, he’s trying to distract himself from the impending invitation into a room crowded with dead bodies. 

The invitation comes then, from a grim-faced Sakyo, who holds the door open for them as they walk inside. The victim is lying on one of the metal tables, covered up to the neck in a white plastic sheet. Her hair is spread around her head like a halo, and the tranquil unperturbed expression of death having sunk in deep into her delicate features. 

“So, what are we here for, again?” Itaru questions, dazedly. An insensitive question in the face of the coroner, who casts him a frown apparent despite a mask covering half his face. 

Homare recognises that Itaru tends to lack professionalism at times, but in times of greater need, Itaru comes through in a manner that is unique to him. Despite his instances of minor misconduct, which Homare knows don’t sit well with Sakyo, Itaru stays with the agency because he’s one of their best detectives. 

Case in point: his previous interrogation, that took a mere 2 weeks ago, where he rightfully exposed the city’s biggest businesswoman as a murder through nothing but an address and a bluff.

The door to the morgue opens again and this time, the doctor walks in. 

He’s a slender man, with silver hair tied up into a ponytail and a fringe curtaining one side of his face. He walks with a deliberation and in a relaxed manner, like he has all the time in the world to spare. His eyelids droop lazily behind his spectacles, a kind and uncaring smile on his face as he carelessly regards all the people in the room. Under his white coat, Homare can see the curves that are unique to dancers. He has a style that makes the stethoscope wrapped around his neck look like a trendy accessory.

A tag is clipped onto the left breast of his coat that reads “Azuma Yukishiro”.

“I see we’re all gathered,” Azuma notes. His tone is smooth; he has a voice like silk. There’s a charm to the careless way he talks - the way the words roll off his tongue as if there’s no second thought to it. But there’s an elegant manner to his speech, which Homare finds it surprising to detect considering this man has only spoken one word. 

Azuma’s presence, as he steps into the morgue, causes a ripple of energy throughout the room. 

“I’ve called them as you requested, doctor,” The coroner says. 

“I knew I could count on you, Suki,” Azuma continues and turns to the three of them. “Sorry for my tardiness. I was just tending to a patient who’s to be discharged today.” 

“That’s alright,” Sakyo responds. Despite his vehement hatred for latecomers, he softens under Azuma’s gaze. Azuma’s presence seems to have that effect on everyone in the room - even Itaru, whose scowl nearly disappears as he soaks in the warmth of Azuma’s kind smile. 

Homare likes Azuma already. He can feel him on his empathy radar, at a greater scale than he can feel most people. Humans, naturally, tend to be reserved around strangers - and he feels that as well, like one would the surface tension of a force field, or knots in their muscles, or a dam against a river. But Azuma has kind of a flow - like a river flowing calmly over a rocky riverbed, smoothing stones into pebbles. Homare can feel that in its full intensity. It’s a relaxing presence to feel and soak in, and instantly fogs his mind for a second. 

Homare reads people well - he’s mastered body language to an extent that can allow him to discern how an individual is feeling based on the position of their feet, the angle of their gaze, the number of seconds they can maintain eye contact at a time. So when Azuma looks at him in greeting, he can read the kindness and a little bit of indifference. 

“We’ve been getting strange calls lately,” Azuma says, getting straight to the point. “About this patient in particular.” Homare notes how Azuma still uses the term “patient” and not “body”.

“Calls from whom?” Itaru questions. “And about what? What do they say?” 

“Nothing that makes sense,” Azuma replies, a frown on his face. “Just her name, and a date - specifically, Christmas Day. Then, they laugh, and hang up. I’d suspected it was a prank call at first, but they were persistent and - “ 

“Christmas is next week,” Itaru finishes. “You didn’t want to take any chances. But why call us? Did you consult the police first?” 

“They told us it was a prank call.” Azuma folded his arms, and shook his head. “They don’t trust ‘bad feelings’. They claimed the caller hadn’t done any harm yet other than disrupt routine here at the reception. They insisted we even change our number but we can’t risk emergency calls and calls from the patients’ relatives being delayed. Especially since the hospital is pretty full during the cold season.” 

“The police are fucking useless,” Itaru concludes. “Never let a cop do the job meant for a detective.” 

“I agree.” Azuma smiles.

Homare moves to the table, on which the body is lying and reaches under the sheet for the woman’s hand, taking it in his own experimentally. In the joints, he can feel the stiffness of rigor mortis, and when he rubs a thumb over the back of her hand, her skin feels rubbery under his touch. The stench of the morgue is unbearable, but the sight of an empty body is worse. He can understand why people refer to this lifelessness as “body”. When someone is born, it’s the soul that earns the name, not the body itself. This body is but a vessel to carry the weight of that soul, to give it a means of functioning, to give it a _solid_ form.

Still, the goodbye is never easy. Standing here, holding this woman’s hand, Homare can practically sense her family’s grief, like a crushing weight that’s bearing down mercilessly on him. Like Atlas holding up the sky, Homare often feels trapped under the feelings like this - when he gets tangled up in the net of emotions and complexities. 

But what keeps him going is this - a person’s struggles are individually profound, but cosmically insignificant. Homare knows there’s more to the universe than the pettiness of human life on a single planet in a single galaxy. 

He’s still just human though, trapped in the mundane cycle as everyone else. He can’t save the world, but he can save _a_ world. A child’s, a sister’s, a father’s. That’s the best part about this job - it gives him the chance to do just that. 

“Does her family know about the calls?” Homare questions, tucking her hand under the sheet again and joining the discussion. 

“Yes,” Azuma replies. “They were the first ones to be told. I’d assumed it was her family calling at first, but they denied pretty fervently.” He frowns gently. “The calls didn’t even last long enough for the police to be able to trace them.” 

“And when did these calls start?” 

“After the surgery results came out and her cause of death was confirmed.” 

“Cause of death being…?”

“A heart attack.” 

Homare frowns reflexively, as he rubs his thumb against his index finger, trying to scrape off that rubbery sensation of a corpse’s skin. The woman’s skin is immaculate, and even in death, her beauty is intact - no doubt, she would have been twice as gorgeous if her hearth had continued burning. Over her smooth, flat skin, there’s a slight inconsistency in its texture that continues to bother Homare and make his finger itch in response. 

Maybe he’s just imagining it, but there’s a small hole - the size of a needle tip - indented into her wrist. He’s always been hypersensitive to texture, so he gives himself the benefit (or, in his words, the disadvantage) of doubt and doesn’t bring it up in the conversation for now. He’ll talk to Itaru about it later. 

“That’s an oddly natural cause of death. Not something that would warrant any suspicious calls,” Sakyo muses, “Do you have any idea what the caller wants? Have they made any demands?” 

Azume shakes his head, clearly just as perplexed as the rest of them. “None at all.” 

“Seems like a prank call situation.” Itaru’s patience is clearly running thin, more so today than any other day. Homare notes the little vein running across his partner’s temple, that seems to be throbbing, and the redness ringing his eyes. _Stayed up late gaming, I presume_ , he thinks to himself, somewhat disapprovingly. 

He has no qualms with Itaru’s gaming habits, despite them pointing clearly to signs of addiction and having some debilitating effects on the worst days. That’s why they’ve all agreed that as long as he gets his job done and his performance isn’t affected, Itaru is free to indulge himself as he pleases. 

“Around what time do you receive these calls usually?” Homare decides to step up and take Itaru’s place in the conversation. 

“The security guard on duty reported they usually call at 2 in the morning or so, halfway into his shift.” 

Homare thinks for a while, and exchanges a glance with Itaru. 

He can’t tell what Itaru is thinking - of all the people, he’s the hardest to read. He changes like the tides, more inclined to following the gravity of the moon than the earth’s as he does his own instincts compared to anyone else’s instructions. Itaru is much like the ocean that way - similar in his element of mystery and beauty. Maybe this is so because they’ve never talked outside of work. 

All Homare knows about him is at the surface - touching the water so that it ripples, like little echoes of Itaru’s personality that sends a shot of clarity and gives him a glimpse of the seabed.

“I’ll visit the hospital tonight,” Homare suggests, “Arrive around 1 or so, and stay with your guard until the call comes - “ 

“Not possible,” Itaru interrupts, which grates on Homare’s nerves for an instant. “You have paperwork.” 

Oh, right. It’s _that_ day of the week. Paperwork day. 

“Then, tomorrow,” Homare tries again. Itaru looks like he’s about to say something but Homare finds it in himself to shoot his colleague a warning look. 

“That’ll be fine,” Azuma agrees. “I’ll let the guard know. We’ll tell you how it goes tonight with the caller as well.” He sounds weary. 

They part ways then, Sakyo choosing to stay behind a while and interview the coroner while Itaru and Homare drive back to the agency. 

As soon as they get into the car, in front of the hospital, Homare turns to Itaru in his seat. “You seem troubled,” He states, kindly. 

Itaru’s ears turn red as he smiles sheepishly, the way he does when he’s embarrassed. “Damn, is it that obvious?” 

Homare and Itaru have been partners for the entire time that they’ve been employed at the agency. Arriving as new detectives and working through practically every major case together has warranted a kind of professional intimacy, a kind of brotherhood. No matter how much of a recluse he is, Itaru is human and his feelings appear every now and then on Homare’s radar. He can detect it, sensitively, as one would the drop in air pressure before rain. 

“I won’t be able to join you on the case tomorrow,” Itaru confesses. “I’ve taken the day off because I have to babysit my nephew.” His voice is weighed down with dread, which makes it hoarser than usual. He’s clearly not looking forward to it. 

“What bothers you more - not being able to join me on the case or having to babysit your nephew?” 

Itaru heaves a loud sigh, like the answer takes effort to spit out. “Both, I guess. Or maybe neither. It doesn’t look like a very serious case, and at least my sister’s letting me use her Wi-Fi when I’m over.”

Right. Homare is once again reminded that Itaru joined for the thrill of the job - it’s what keeps him dedicated to it. Itaru is a pretty finicky person, there’s nothing that he’s generally passionate about other than gaming and maybe, sleuthing. If the case isn’t exciting, he doesn’t like to take it up. 

“It’s fine,” Homare assures him. “I’ll handle this case for tomorrow. And tell you what, I’ll also teach you how to handle your nephew.” 

Itaru’s nephew is 6 years old - right at that age where he’s bound to make demands without the gratitude to spare for each fulfilled one. Homare’s experience with kids is limited to the 2 months he spent in hospital pre- and post-surgery when he was 17 right next to the pediatric ward. He’s certain he can spare good intel to help Itaru in his babysitting adventures. 

“Thanks, Homare, you’re a gem.” 

* * *

  
  
  


Homare doesn’t get a chance to finish his paperwork, because at 1 am, the agency received an emergency call from the hospital guard, who updated them (frantically and scared out of his mind) with the strangest news ever. 

“What do you _mean_ , ‘the body started walking’?” Itaru’s tone is incredulous, albeit furious, when he questions the security guard at the entrance of the hospital. “Dead bodies don’t walk!” 

The guard’s face is pale, drained of colour, with cracked lips that he keeps biting at in nervousness. It has nothing to do with the dark and irritated look on Itaru’s face, which Homare can feel taking residence on his own at the sheer stupidity of the situation. The guard was already found hiding under the reception desk, trembling violently with a petrified look on his face. It was only after the two of them arrived that he managed to crawl out and retell the story.

Apparently, he heard noises downstairs and went down to investigate. The morgue door was left open, held in place by one of the stools and there was faint thumping down the corridor. When he’d followed the noise, he turned the corner just in time to see the utility elevator doors close on a grey-bodied woman in a hospital gown, her unruly stiff locks of hair curling against her face to conveniently mask her features. But she had the tag with the patient’s name on it.

When he came back to the morgue, the storage drawer for her body was empty. 

Itaru and Homare shared an equally disbelieving glance. 

“As much as I am a fan of ghost stories, I don’t quite believe the body could have walked itself out, since she is… you know, _dead_ ,” Homare says, hating to sound so repetitive.

“I’m not lying,” The guard insisted, hitching his trousers higher in a determined manner and swiping the flashlight off the desk. “Come on, I’ll show you.” 

Itaru is a fairly patient person, thanks to his dispassionate nature which makes him hard to rile up but even so, this outlandish story about a dead body walking out of the morgue would grind on anyone’s nerves. It is on Homare’s.

They enter the morgue and the security guard finds the patient’s storage drawer and pulls it out, to reveal Izumi Tachibana’s body right where it should be - where he claimed it hadn’t been - untouched under the plastic sheet, just as the coroner had left it. 

Homare fights back a snort as Itaru shoots a glare at the security guard, who shrivels up under the heat of his angry gaze. It’s quite a comical sight, and if it hadn’t been for the morbid atmosphere of the room, Homare would have laughed out loud. 

“Walked out, you say?” Itaru repeats the guard’s words back at him, pulling out his phone. “Are you sure you weren’t hallucinating? You aren’t on drugs, medication or drinking on the job?” 

“I’m perfectly sober, thank you very much! I just… don’t understand - “ 

“Sir, it’s fine,” Homare butts in before Itaru can say something scathing and regrettable. “Since we’re already here, we might as well wait for that caller.” He takes the guard gently by the shoulder and leads him out, Itaru following suit as he grumbles under his breath. 

The call doesn’t come. 

“You think they’re just fucking with us?” Itaru whispers as he and Homare walk down the hospital steps to the car. “Kind of feels odd since you’d think they have better things to - and _what_ do you need those for anyway?” 

He’s referring to the thumbdrive that Homare’s pinched between his fingers protectively, carrying the hospital’s CCTV footage from the past 8 hours. Homare slips it into his pocket, shrugging carelessly. He doesn’t want to admit that he felt pity for the guard and offered to look into the footage to confirm there wasn’t any… strange activity that night. 

“Don’t tell me you believe that guy.” Itaru stops abruptly, standing between Homare and the car door. “Homare, we’re here to help people as best we can and I know you get soft a lot, but we can’t afford to stretch ourselves thin by taking up unnecessary issues when there are more serious cases that require our attention.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Homare assures him, shifting on his feet. “I just… have a hunch and I need to check to see if I’m right.” 

Itaru narrows his eyes at him, then hums distractedly. “Fine. Take this night to deal with it, but tomorrow, I want you to drop the issue already.”

Homare agrees. 

* * *

  
  


Itaru leaves at around 3 am for home, leaving Homare in the agency building all alone with the CCTV footage. 

It takes a painful 4 hours of frame-by-frame analysis and Homare’s eyes are stinging but by the time the clock strikes to the agency’s opening hour and Sakyo clocks in for the day, he’s found something. 

It’s seemingly insignificant, but it’s _something_.

He’s found a particular inconsistency - a span of 30 minutes of footage of one of the waiting rooms where the minute hand of the clock doesn’t move the slightest. It’s looped footage. He examines the video by the frame, and succeeds in confirming his deduction. 

Something happened within the 30 minutes that’s not been recorded. It couldn’t be a dead body walking - clearly not - but something definitely happened. Usually, the signs of escaping detection are a big signal for something unlawful taking place. 

He shoots up in his seat abruptly, startling Sakyo. “Sakyo-san, I’m going to need to borrow your car,” Homare says, stumbling over at least 20 different things and a little bit of air as he makes his way to the director’s table. 

“How about taking a shower and drinking some tea?” Sakyo proposes, scrunching his nose in disapproval. “You look quite a sight, Arisugawa. Why not take a few hours off to get freshened up and then pursue whatever case?” Homare is aware he smells pretty bad, but he’s not the least bit tired. This new finding has injected adrenaline and it is coursing through him, like liquid fire. 

He snatches the keys Sakyo holds out to him, and swipes the cup of tea off his boss’s desk for a good measure as he rushes out of the room, with Sakyo yelling a string of profanities after him in annoyance. He nearly collides with Itaru, who’s just coming in for work, and apologises over his shoulder. His partner would not approve of his next course of action, and Homare winces as he realises that he wouldn’t himself either. 

The next hour is a blur as Homare pulls up outside the hospital and flashes his business identification to the security guard and receptionist. Azuma comes rushing down to greet him, a confused look wrinkling his pristine features as Homare explains his objective. 

The morgue is empty once the family standing there, identify their dead relative and give the schedule for the embalming and burial. 

Finally, Homare pulls out Izumi Tachibana’s drawer, where her body lies, undisturbed. 

With shaking hands, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pen knife he swiped off Sakyo’s desk in the morning. Drawing out its blade, as Azuma watched with horror written on his face, Homare plunges it into the corpse’s collar bone, dragging it lengthwise down her torso to cut a deep and long incision. There’s the deafening sound of rubber violently tearing as he does so, and Azuma whimpering reflexively as he watches Homare. 

Homare freezes, as does Azuma when he moves closer to look as the contents of the corpse spill out of the incision. 

It is filled to the brim with cotton, holding the skin of the corpse taught. As Homare reaches in and digs out all the cotton, the body (if you can call it that) deflates like a balloon until it’s nothing but a sheet of silicon, its insides lined with black rubber - like an intricately made costume perfectly fitted for a full-body disguise. 

Azuma stumbles. “Wh - “ 

“The body was stolen,” Homare concludes, his blood running cold as he says it. “You need to get the police here _now_.”

Azuma pulls out his phone, his already milky complexion growing even paler and turning a little blue as he dials the police. 

Homare picks up the skinsuit, shaking out the last bit of cotton and turning it over and over. A piece of paper flutters out and drops at Homare’s feet. He bends down and picks it up, realising it’s a business card with a name and number written on it. The logo takes up half the space on it. 

“Doctor, what’s Izumi’s relationship with him?” He turns the business card to Azuma when Azuma hangs up his call with the police. 

“They’re business partners,” Azuma muses, taking the card from him. And then he adds, “He’s her husband.” 

“Please give him a call as well. I’d like to investigate him.” 

“Of course.” 

“You have quite a few calls to make, doctor,” Homare says, calmly, “I’d suggest you hand over any important surgeries to another surgeon for today. Tonight, I’d like the ground floor and morgue closed off for investigation. Please let the stay-in patients know.” 

Azuma nods, and then leaves the morgue. 

Homare folds up the skinsuit, his stomach turning in nausea, then picks up the business card, turning it over and over. It seemed a little too easy, kind of like a setup. Were the real culprits attempting to frame him? Seemed plausible. 

His thought is cut short when his phone rings with an unknown number. 

* * *

  
  


The husband. They always suspect the husband first when something happens to the woman. So here he is - The Husband, and the readers shall know him by this name. 

He sits in Dr Yukishiro’s office, which the doctor himself has given up for the night for the sake of the investigation. Across him, sits The Detective. A young and slender man in a sleek stylish black trench coat and a scarf around his neck. In the dimness of the yellow hospital night lights outside that slant through the blinds in ribbons, the man’s eyes glint a jarring shade of violet. 

“My name is Homare Arisugawa,” He introduces himself. “You may call me Homare. Sorry for calling you down here at such an ungodly hour. I was hoping that after work hours would be the best time to catch you.” 

‘Ungodly’ is an understatement. It’s 2 in the fucking morning. This bastard had the whole day to conduct investigations already, it’s kind of unnerving - as someone who’s been marked for suspicion - to be the last one to arrive on the crime scene, especially since the victim in question is his wife (or her body, at least). 

The story they feed him then turns his blood to ice. She got up and walked out? Her body was replaced by a silicon and rubber replica? The first part is the most unbelievable part. The second part is the most terrifying. 

He tells Homare about her as the questions are asked. 

Izumi was a nice woman - kind and loved by her neighbours and friends. She looked after her interior design company well. In fact, she had a special kind of touch and intuition that was perfect for the job: she knew exactly what her clients wanted and what would best fit the architecture of the rooms and houses. She made friends with her clients as she did with her employees. Generous, classy, beautiful. 

“You clearly hold her in high esteem,” Homare comments, absently twirling his pen. His hands are smooth and his fingers are slim and dexterous like those of a pianist’s or an artist’s. He has this casual but elegant manner in which he speaks, like he has all the time in the world. Which, strangely, unnerves The Husband even more. 

There’s a loud scraping of the chair as Homare pushes himself away from the table and stands. “The entire ground floor and basement are on lockdown,” He explains, moving to the door of the office and pulling it open. “We have all the time in the world, sir, to explore this case. I called you here not because I suspect you, but because I suspect the hospital staff.” His voice is firm, but also smooth. Deep and velvety in some areas. It carries in the still air. 

“See, there is no available footage that suggests the body ever left this hospital,” Homare continues. “Neither is there any evidence of a break-in or anyone besides the guard on duty having access to the building at night.” He turns, hands behind his back as he smiles. “I suppose, you know what that means?” 

“The body’s still in the hospital?” The Husband guesses. 

“Exactly.”

He gets up, hastily. “We need to find it, then! What are we wasting time for?” He rushes to the door but Homare steps in front of him, like a looming wall, and slams a hand into his chest to stop him in his tracks. 

“Yes, but you see, sir,” Homare grins sheepishly, “while I don’t suspect you, the police still do. The fact that your business card was found in the replica tells both parties completely different things - to me, it’s clear as day that you’re being framed. You wouldn’t be so careless to leave any identification at the scene if you were the criminal. But to the police - it means you’re guilty.” 

He puts up two fingers into The Husband’s face. “You’re here for two reasons. One, to find your wife’s body. And two, to prove your innocence. I’m going to need you to cooperate with me for a bit before we can begin.” 

He then turns and gestures to the police officer standing at the mouth of the corridor, and she walks up, slipping out handcuffs and clasping them around The Husband’s wrists. He doesn’t protest. His mind is working overtime to decipher the situation at hand.

His wife walked out on her own? _No, I’m pretty sure she’d been dead when - She can’t just have - Oh, god, what’s going to happen to me now?_

“I need a - “ He doesn’t finish his sentence, but struggles and reaches into his pocket where he keeps a spare cigarette and lighter. Homare puts a hand on his wrist before he can continue. 

“In due time, sir. Please be reminded this is a hospital. You can’t smoke in here.” He nods towards the stairwell at the end of the corridor. “Come on, let’s begin with the basement.” 

They descend into the basement, the eerie silence pressing on them heavily. 

“We’re going to check the rooms in the basement first,” Homare explains. “Right next to the morgue. Then, the first floor. And we’ll check the stairwell too. The police are checking the other floors while the patients are asleep. They’ll call me and let me know if there’s anything of concern.” 

The basement is barren, save for a few changing rooms, janitor closets and the rooms for generators, water pressure and tanks. The darkness makes his skin crawl - he can almost feel her presence in it, laughing at him, chiding him. The memories, under the light of the moon, seem to take a monstrous shape and crawl out of the crevices in the building to breathe down his neck, their hot breath searing his nerves and burning into his shred of sanity. 

No, she’s dead. He’s fairly certain she’s dead. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. This has to be some sort of a prank. 

He leaves the changing room, having come up with nothing and meets Homare outside, where he’s talking in a hushed manner on the phone. “Itaru, please look into the name and address I texted you. I’m so sorry to bother you like thi - _Yes_ , thank you so much.”

“So? Any news?” 

“No,” Homare responds, hanging up immediately. “I’m having Izumi’s surgeon investigated too. Can’t be too careful. How about yourself? Any finds?” 

“None. I don’t know what we’re looking for, really.” 

“You’ll know it when you find it,” Homare assures him. “A lot of the time, I go in blind myself. But the key is to not leave any stone unturned. Some evidence will eventually pop up. Or I have to draw it out of hiding myself. It just works like that.” 

They split up again, with Homare ducking into the generator room and him into the janitors’ recreation room. Everything is neatly tucked away exactly where it should be. There’s a round table for meals, and a sink and lockers lining one wall with the uniforms hanging in them. He kicks at the ground and surveys the room lazily, his motivation and patience running thin. There’s nothing here, as there was nothing in the previous room. 

He turns to leave, and then he spots something that makes him freeze.

There, on the window sill, sits a champagne flute. Its classy and clean nature looks out of place in the dingy recreation room. But that’s not what makes him stop and do a double take - it’s the fuchsia lipstick stain on it’s ring, an exact match to the shade he’d gifted Izumi for their fifth anniversary. There’s gold writing on its base, exactly as it had been when the flute had been pulled out of its styrofoam packing cube - ‘Happy Anniversary’ in his lazy and messy scrawl. 

He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but this is much worse than a ghost. 

It feels like someone has spat right on his face, as he takes the flute into his hands and runs his thumb over the stain, feeling the memories surface one by one - Izumi is sitting across from him in the restaurant and spooning rice into her mouth, red in the face from laughing; she is struggling into a newly bought evening gown that’s a bit too small for her, her hairdo falling apart; her face is twisted with pain and betrayal during their last fight; there’s an unmoving tranquility in her expression the last time he sees her before he calls the authorities to report her death. 

In each memory, she’s wearing this shade of lipstick. The one he gifted her. He knows it’s her favourite gift from him. 

And now - 

It feels like cold hands have grabbed his neck, sending a jolt of terror throughout as his body as it sinks in - _what is this glass doing here?_

To silence the fear speaking inside his head, he hurls it across the room, where it shatters against the wall. He can almost see the memories escape from it in the form of mist. He can hear the echo of her voice still. “Why?” She asked. Her last word to him.

There is a creak as the door to the janitor’s closet opens. “Mr Arisugawa?” He calls, feebly. But there is no answer. 

The shadows seem to take shapes on the floor, turning and shifting into silhouettes of his childhood nightmares, as they reach out to grab him. 

He wasn’t scared before, but he is scared now. He feels like a child - scared of the dark, his imagination giving shape and identity to the darkness. 

He steps into the empty hallway, still calling for Homare but he gets nothing. The basement feels empty asides from him. 

There’s a certain feel to another human being’s presence - the air that they displace as they move that sends microscopic ripples throughout the atmosphere, the heat their body emanates that makes the air around them feel touched and equally as warm, their footprint that isn’t necessarily left behind by their feet alone.

The basement is cold and empty. He can’t feel Homare’s footprint. 

He walks towards the stairwell, but stops. 

There’s nothing that can best describe the terror that rises up in him like a tsunami as he watches the figure behind the glass panel of the stairwell door. 

He didn’t want to believe it but there are often instances in your life when you ignore an outlandish truth until it violently forces itself into your conscience, breaks down your walls and makes itself home. This truth’s presence makes his heart seize up for a second in his chest and his nerves fire away in alarm. His feet are rooted to the ground, like he’s stuck ankle deep in cement. 

He’s staring right at her - or whatever it is that has claimed her body as its vessel. 

She stares back at him, through her hair, forehead thumping against the glass groggily. Like something out of a zombie movie. Except this is real. Every thump seems to send an earthquake throughout the hallway, the sound equivalent to a sonic boom in the empty and still air. 

He feels his vision swimming as he turns around, hurling himself forward and running back to the first room that appears before him. He locks himself inside and burrows into the corner farthest from the door. Her shadow appears in the hallway and he watches through the glass in the door as she traipses past his room. His breath is a knot in his throat, tangled with an overdue scream. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he struggles with the handcuffs to take it out and answer it. 

“I know what you did.” It’s Izumi. Her voice is familiar, but the opposite at the same time. He knows her as someone who exuded warmth every time she spoke. 

He drops it, and pushes himself against the wall again, tremors taking over his body as he thinks to himself, _“Why? Why? Why?...”_ over and over again. He reaches over to his phone, with trembling fingers and hangs up, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing with all his might for this nightmare to end. But inside, he knows, as his shield of dispassion falls away, that this is something he did to himself. 

The phone rings, with the same message this time. Her voice sends icicles digging into his throat, turning his breath solid in a way that has him clawing his throat to breathe. 

“You’re dead.” 

_“I know what you did.”_

“You’re dead.” 

_“Nothing changes what you did.”_

“You’re _dead_ ,” He says the word with extra fervour, a mix of rage pushing out his trembling voice steadily. “You’re dead, Izumi. I _killed_ you. The drug worked exactly as it should have. I _know_ I killed you.”

The caller hangs up first, plunging him back into the silence. He hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, feeling the weight of the confession drop onto him like a bag of bricks. It is crushing - the guilt, but it is also a release to admit it out loud. He’d planned it for months, and his efforts, as they always do, bore fruits. It’s a sick kind of delight that takes hold of him when he thinks about how much went into this. 

The door slams open, and he manages a strangled scream in reflex, only to see that it is Homare and two other police officers. The detective spans the room and bends down in front of him, concern etched onto his face. “Sir, I was looking all over for you. What are you doing here?” He places a hand on The Husband’s shoulder, who flinches instantly. “Come on,” Homare smiles kindly at him. “I have to admit this was my fault for engaging you in the case, knowing the grief must be fresh in your mind.” 

He wants to laugh at that. _Grief_ . But he lets Homare pull him up and lead him back to the entrance hall, still trembling. _It must be the grief_ , he tells himself, _inducing hallucinations like this_. That or the withdrawal he’s experiencing from not having smoked in two days. He needs to be able to convince himself of this lie before he uses it on Homare, to explain his disappearance and the distraught state he found him in. 

Homare holds onto him tightly, grip vice on his elbow, as he leads him up, a grim look on his face. 

There’s another man that greets them, a lollipop in his mouth and a bored expression on his face as he addresses Homare. “This the guy?” 

“Yes, quite a sight, isn’t he?” Homare laughs nervously. “Do take it easy on him, won’t you, Itaru?” 

Itaru is a lean man, body corded lightly with muscle and a cat-like grace and deliberation to his gestures as he slips out a phone - Homare’s phone - from the pocket of his denim jacket. He holds it up, screen facing away from him so the handcuffed man can see the Voice Notes app open on the screen. 

There’s a sort of wickedness to Itaru’s lopsided smirk as his finger presses ‘play’ with an unnecessary fervent force. 

The Husband feels his breath and heart go still as his own voice speaks back at him.

_“You’re dead. You’re dead, Izumi. I killed you. The drug worked exactly as it should have. I know I killed you.”_

Homare detaches himself from the two police officers’ company and basically glides over to join Itaru, an equally wicked smile on his face. He reaches into his trench coat pocket and pulls out a ziploc bag, holding a small empty medication bottle and needle. 

“Chemically-induced heart attack,” He says, swinging the plastic bag leisurely between his pinched fingers. “The whole time you took my bait here and went on a wild goose chase, I had officers sent to your residence to conduct a thorough search. They even checked your garbage disposal, found the sleeve of the syringe. They checked the pharmacist’s, but you’d bought the drugs under your wife’s name.” 

“Man…” Itaru’s voice is a lazy drawl, hoarse with exhaustion but despite the visible fatigue on his face, there’s a flicker in his eyes that seems to burn brighter as he regards the guilty man. “Did you even _try_ to cover up your tracks?” He stretches leisurely, and yawns, nodding at Homare, who moves to take the murderer by the shoulder. 

The culprit, the circuits of his brain firing away with panic, attempts to evade by side stepping but Homare is quicker. He takes the man by the hand, and yanks on his arm, throwing him onto the ground and slamming his booted foot into the wriggling man’s back, successfully drawing a pained howl out of him. 

When Homare speaks, his voice is cold enough to plunge the whole hall into a chill that puts the icy weather outside to shame. He speaks with rage, his voice carrying undercurrents of grief and a heavy sense of betrayal, which would be confusing to the others in the room but not to The Husband. This isn’t the detective talking - his voice sounds distant as he speaks, and his glare is one that is characteristic of Izumi.

He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but this is scarier. A complete stranger, through whose empathy Izumi has made one last comeback, to haunt him forever. He will be haunted by the sight of Homare’s eyes - carrying every last bit of Izumi’s betrayed rage, heartbreak, and grief - even on his deathbed.

The detective leans down, his teeth clenched as he levels his mouth with the man’s ears. _“You either cooperate and make it to the police station in one piece or I rip you apart limb from limb.”_

* * *

  
  


Homare stands up to greet his friends as they enter. Tasuku shakes his hand, grip as firm as ever and Tsumugi, gently, moves in for a tight and grateful embrace. Hisoka mumbles something sleepily as he slides into the booth before anyone else, takes advantage of the sofa and lies down immediately. The rest of them smile and move onto exchange pleasantries as if this is a perfectly normal occurrence. 

“When’s Azuma getting here?” Homare questions as the waiter slides them their drinks. 

“He’ll be a bit late,” Tsumugi informs him. “He was Izumi’s doctor, after all. The police still wanted to ask him a few questions.” He absently swirls the wine inside his glass, a faint smile on his face. Homare recognises that expression as nostalgia, and that deepens when Tsumugi makes eye contact with him and holds it there. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? About 11 years since we last shared a meal.” 

Something opens up in Homare - an old wound or a hole that he’d wished the years would have closed up. Like a tear in the fabric of space-time, it plunges him down this rabbit hole of memories. 

Memories that include the green yard of Tachibana Children’s Home where he grew up, ones with him falling over in the makeshift soccer field in the backyard of the building, ones that have him sharing meals with other orphans, ones where he’s swinging on the hammock and napping while listening to Tsumugi and Tasuku’s playful good-natured banter, which lulled him to sleep most afternoons. Memories of Hisoka curling up to sleep at the foot of his bed because of nightmares of a life he couldn’t even remember. Memories of their shared sentiments of loneliness, abandonment and parentless childhood knitting them impossibly close together - a knot he’d assumed the course of time had undone and severed. 

It does feel nice seeing them again. 

“Well, well, that was quite the performance this morning.” Azuma’s voice snaps Homare out of his reverie and he instantly moves over to make way for the doctor, taking Hisoka’s head into his lap to create space to fit them all. 

“I wasn’t sure Homare would agree to it, actually,” Tsumugi laughs gently. Nervously. “When I called him that morning in the morgue after he found the business card, I’d half assumed he’d trace the call and arrest me or something.”

“Of course, I would help out,” Homare insists, a little hesitantly. “You know, I never go back on my word. I owe the Tachibana family my life.” 

His voice grows softer towards the end as he drinks in the sight of his old friends sitting in front of him, grown well into the world and the society they’d constantly feared, as children, that they’d be left out of because of their past. “As I’m sure we all do.” 

He strokes Hisoka’s hair, a gesture stemming from muscle memory due to the hours he spent as a child giving Hisoka company in his nightmare-filled sleep. “It was quite the theatrical genius, if you ask me. How did you think about it?” 

“We didn’t think of anything,” Tasuku admits. “Izumi planned it all out before her death. She knew her husband would eventually try to hurt her or even kill her to gain immediate possession of her company since she refused to give it up, so she had backup plans for every possible circumstance. We just - “ He gestured to Tsumugi and Hisoka, “ - followed the script. We just needed the last two pieces - you and Azuma- to fit into place. Which you did, and we can’t be more grateful. If this hadn’t worked, the orphanage would have just been used as a corporate tool and accessory.” 

“I had no reservations in helping out,” Azuma admits, smiling gently. “Her orphanage took in a lot of the babies from our hospitals whose mothers bore them before they were ready for parenthood or the mothers who died with no immediate family ready to take custody of the child.” 

“I quite liked Hisoka’s Izumi costume,” Homare comments, chuckling in amusement as he glances down at Hisoka sound asleep on the sofa. “He was perfect for the role.” 

“Wasn’t he?” Tsumugi laughs. “It was effortless for him, I believe, walking around in a sleepy haze.” 

“What of your friend - Itaru?” Azuma questions, turning the conversation to Homare. “He was a big help too, coercing the police into searching the man’s apartment on such short notice and little to no evidence.”

“He’s just my colleague,” Homare corrects him, but smiles as a pride blossoms in his chest. He’s grateful to be working with someone like Itaru. “He just has the natural charm. I was counting on him to use it, but I didn’t think he would. He was on babysitting duty, you know.” 

“You two work too well together to not be friends.” Tsumugi frowns. “You don’t talk outside of work?”

Homare shakes his head. No, they don’t. Though he’d very much like to, he’s never worked up the courage to ask Itaru any questions outside of the professional circle. They already work seamlessly together - like parts of a well-oiled machine - so neither really found the pressure to pursue a friendship outside of their work. He makes a note later. He’ll see if Itaru wants to have lunch with him during one of their breaks.

Maybe then, he can explain everything that actually happened that morning in the hospital. When Itaru confronted him after the police drove off, Homare reduced it to, “The pressure of the interrogation must have gotten to him,” and left it at that. He was a little scared - that Itaru would feel betrayed by Homare’s methods in this particular case, what with him having worked with an external party. 

But explaining everything means delving into his childhood, his past, and all the bad things that come with it. Homare is certain he and Itaru are not on terms that warrant emotional vulnerability to that extent. Maybe one day they will be, but not anytime soon. 

“A toast?” Homare suggests experimentally, breaking the dull conversation with his sentimentality again. 

“To?” Tasuku continues, as a question. 

“To Izumi,” The rest of them finish in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- at this point, i'm just writing shit unplanned and leaving the rest up to god.  
> \- bet you didn't expect THAT ending.  
> \- leave kudos and validation, to whatever extent you think my writing's worth. i'm glad you've read this far and i'm grateful for all my readers.


	3. Nancy Drew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- as usual, ignore the typos  
> \- WARNINGS for the chapter: mentions of gun violence, shooting, violence, mentions of blood, wounds

Yuki has to suppress a wince every time his pencil heels click sharply on the tiled hospital floor. The sound is deafening in the otherwise crowded but eerily silent corridors. The hospital is full of muted activity - the diagnoses are delivered behind closed doors, the news is shared among family members in hushed tones, the dull beeping of ticketing machines issuing queue numbers in the waiting room is lost to the loud musical tone indicating a free counter prepared to take another visitor. 

His and Sakyo’s paths converge right before they’re taken into the west wing of the hospital by a disgruntled nurse and led to a treatment room.

Itaru is sitting on the examination table, tentatively and gently pressing his finger against one of the many bandages. There’s a bruise colouring his left cheek that’s been covered in some kind of balm, and a bandage over the swollen bridge of his nose. His handsome features have been tainted with evidence of violence and one of his arms is in a sling. 

Homare is sitting on a chair, pressing an ice pack to his head but otherwise, he looks unharmed. 

Sakyo is nothing short of furious, though Yuki can discern that this fury originates largely out of fear and concern for his employees. He folds his arms, the way he does when he’s about to issue a scolding, and asks, “Will anyone care to explain what’s going on here?” 

“Progress,” Itaru replies, his eyes taking on an odd excited glint. It’s kind of hard to associate a word so positive and a reaction so enthusiastic with the outcome - a broken limb, busted up face and a possible concussion. 

“If you’re referring to the case you were pursuing,” Sakyo begins, “I suggest you drop it until you finish recovering.” Before Itaru can argue, he continues, “I don’t care how serious this is - we can still hand it over to the police or any other agency to pursue, but if it’s something that’s endangered you or compromised your safety, I’d rather cut short the investigation right now.” 

Sakyo’s stern in his manner of speaking, by default. And he usually only expresses emotions that range from exasperation, to irritation and sometimes, anger but even in his stern tone, Yuki can detect affection, buried deep under all the actions that seem indifferent in nature. His love language is one that often goes misunderstood so it’s hard to recognise his gestures of concern. 

Yuki’s spent enough time in the office room, helping Sakyo out as the agency’s errand boy, to understand this. Itaru and Homare are usually either out for their many cases, or absorbed in their own work when they’re in the office. Sakyo’s reminders to eat lunch on time, advice on how to manage an overstimulating case and the routinely “Goodnight”s at the end of a work day might have simply seemed like second nature to the detectives, but not to Yuki. 

Yuki has spent at least a year now as the intern (which, in other words, means he’s simply an errand boy), but that year has given him enough time to understand the workings of this small but homely detective agency - especially since there’s only three people. He picks at the little things - the details - to put together an anomaly-free big picture. Like in a machine with its many cogs and gears and coils of wire, Yuki has painstakingly taken apart the agency, gear by gear and bolt by bolt, to decide if it’ll be worth his time. 

It’s simple. He really wants to work here after graduating and specifically, he wants to work with these people. 

“You can’t do that!” Itaru jumps off the examination table in protest. “You know this little incident only means that we’re on the right track! It means we’ve definitely found something the culprit didn’t want us to find. It means we’re close - We can’t… If we cut short the investigation, it gives them enough time to cover up their tracks - “ 

“I don’t care,” Sakyo says, in a tone that indicates his decision is final. “You’re both suspended from work for two weeks. Arisugawa needs to recover from his head injury, and you need to do something about that face of yours. If you show up to conduct investigations with a face that doesn’t match your ID card, you’ll get reported to the police anyways - “ 

“But - “ 

“No but’s! Except for yours sat in a chair at home, recovering!” Sakyo bellows, his face turning red. “This is not up for debate. I’d already got the idea that this case is a pretty serious and dangerous one. No point biting off more than you can chew. Focus on getting better.” Yuki assumes he would issue an entire lecture if the nurse didn’t call him outside to talk to him about his employees’ misconduct.

“So, what exactly happened? You look like you lost a fight to a bulldozer,” Yuki observes, turning to Itaru. 

Yuki knows from eavesdropping on conversations that this is a pretty serious case investigating the shooting that took place by the Veludo Canal just a week back. A sniper, positioned in the dimly lit car park, took down 6 random people on the opposite pavement of the canal early in the morning with 7 bullets, for seemingly no other reason than to kill for sport. 

Later, when the police first arrived at the crime scene, they found the fingerprints of a man called Chikage Utsuki on the coin used to pay for the parking slot. 

When questioned, Chikage refused to answer anyone except to tell them he would not be responding to any interrogations unless Itaru Chigasaki was handed the case. He asked for Itaru by name which is why, Yuki thinks, Itaru feels especially obligated to follow through this case to the end. Not only is it a thrilling series of murders to investigate, but to Itaru, it seems like Fate itself has bestowed this responsibility on him. 

More than anything, someone he believes to be innocent is relying on him and no matter how irresponsible he behaves sometimes, Yuki knows Itaru as the type of person to come through when it is required of him. 

Itaru fills Yuki in on how he and Homare had decided to visit the pub Chikage worked at, and how Itaru was waiting outside the bar to flag down a taxi while Homare collected his packed dinner. The two men had caught Itaru alone and Itaru, being overpowered, had been nearly unconscious before Homare arrived at the scene, having heard the commotion, and swung his umbrella to send it smashing into one of the assailants’ heads. Just as the police arrived on the scene and sent the other thug running. 

“The police were waiting around the corner,” Itaru explains, “Someone had tipped them off before the fight even started. It was a set-up, to stop the investigation. Which only means, we’re closer to the answer than the perp expected us to be. They’re flustered and buying time to cover up their tracks - _which is exactly what we’re allowing them to do by suspending agency activities, by the way_.” 

Yuki frowns. “Relax. Sakyo’s just worried about you, no matter how hard that is to believe. This is the best decision. A cold case is better than a dead detective.” 

Homare groans. “This is a little too stimulating for someone with a headache. Before I actually get a concussion from this discussion, I’m going to go get us all something to eat from the cafeteria.” He drops the ice pack onto his chair as he takes the cane for support and stumbles out of the treatment room to leave the two of them alone. 

“I only have a week’s time for this case, before the police close it for good and Chikage is put on trial,” Itaru explains. “That’s a week to prove his innocence, and if I’m put on suspension, I can’t even use my ID to conduct any sort of interviews whatsoever. I’ll get fired. Then, we’ll have nothing.” He’s slouched over his broken arm in a very dejected manner, and Yuki is not used to seeing Itaru so expressive and honest with his sadness like this. 

He looks tired, with his natural eloquence and charm beaten right out of him, and from this angle, he just looks like any other young man worn down by the pressures of his work and society. Itaru is so invested and enthusiastic about his job, Yuki always assumed he never really thought of his life at the agency as ‘work’ - more like a playground than anything, actually. 

It breaks his heart. 

“You’re letting your personal feelings cloud your judgement in this case,” Yuki explains frankly in his trademark deadpan. “Even if Sakyo hadn’t suspended you, you wouldn’t have gone anywhere in this case. It doesn’t matter how good you are, I can tell you’re a little too invested in this case. It’s also in your best interests to avoid experiencing failure because of your carelessness. Getting suspended is the best case scenario as opposed to losing a high-stakes case.” 

Itaru’s staring at him strangely and Yuki realises a little too late that he may have taken that too far. As it is characteristic for him, he braces himself instead of stomping on his pride and apologising as he should have. 

“I’m not getting lectured by an errand boy,” Itaru says, coldly. His expression is cold and dull and his gaze incises Yuki’s resolve. “If you think you’re so great, go and solve the case by yourself.” Then, he lies down on the leather mattress and turns away from Yuki, proceeding to sulk like a little boy who got denied his favourite candy. 

Itaru doesn’t even realise the weight of his words - the way Yuki soaks them up, the gears in his mind kicked into full speed. _‘Go and solve the case by yourself’_. 

_Maybe I will_ , Yuki thinks to himself decisively. 

Homare bursts into the room, and stumbles dizzily, holding up the packed lunches tucked under his arm. “Fear not, my hungry colleagues, I have arrived with your belly-fillers!” He announces with a flourish, but Yuki doesn’t quite hear him. 

Homare always talks a bit weird - maybe being concussed is his default state of functioning. There are instances that Yuki has learned to tune him out instead of trying to understand what he’s saying. 

“Thanks, Homare,” Itaru says quietly as Homare breaks open the chopsticks for him and spoons a bit of the steamed vegetables into Itaru’s bento from his own. Everyone knows that, for some odd reason, Itaru enjoys those - especially if there are mushrooms mixed in with them. Homare executes this gesture somewhat tenderly, clearly internalising his duty to aid Itaru in simply tasks his colleague can’t do one-handed. 

Yuki is surprised, as is anyone else, whenever he’s reminded that outside of the agency, these two do not initiate contact. It’s impossible to believe that two people who work so well together do not consider themselves friends outside of their work. This is a tedious line of work - Yuki has heard them arguing many times about the evidence or plan of action or whatever, but their relationship has been as strong, cordial and professional as ever. 

Itaru is not very trusting of people, Yuki concludes, and Homare tends to come off too strong. This difference has not affected their working relationship - actually, it seems that they balance each other out perfectly. It was Sakyo’s idea to pair them up. 

The truth is, as Yuki has gathered from his eavesdropping, Homare was the one who called Sakyo at the police station where the two of them had been detained and already absorbed Sakyo’s earful on behalf of Itaru. He wasn’t the one who required suspending - he would recover in two or three days, but he insisted he be granted the same leave as Itaru. 

“I think he would feel better if he weren’t in it alone,” Homare explained. “And I refuse to conduct any sort of investigation if he’s not there to have my back.” 

_‘Not friends’ indeed_ , Yuki thinks sarcastically. They have a dynamic similar to brothers, but neither of them realises it. 

* * *

  
  


It’s just rained so the puddles slosh under Yuki’s boots as he leaves Chikage’s pub, where he took shelter using the weather as an excuse to talk to the guy’s parents, who are tending to the place while their son is incarcerated. Not much came out from it - maybe because Yuki is only 16 and naturally, not taken as seriously by the adults. Itaru probably had more luck than this, given his natural charm and persuasiveness. 

This road is dark, save for the streetlights, so Yuki has to take out his phone and turn on his flashlight to see the pavement ahead of him and sidestep the shady-looking stains. The warm wind left behind after the summer rain does nothing to smooth out the goosebumps that are springing up along his limbs and on the back of his neck. Despite the shield of his bob cut, Yuki feels the ghost of someone’s breath on his neck, prompting him to wrap his arms across himself for a feeble sense of security. 

The roads are bare in this part of town, so he’s really the only one out here but he knows he’s being followed. There’s a cold dead fear that grips him and settles like ice on all of his nerves, making his motions stiff and unsteady. 

This part of town hasn’t been as populated as it was before Chikage was arrested. His parents also mentioned the number of teenagers that continuously targeted their place and the pub for their stupid dares and pranks. Yuki feels sorry for them, really - to be associated with a crime they didn’t even commit and _possibly_ , even one that their son had nothing to do with.

Yuki doesn’t want to turn around - he can feel their presence. There is danger in turning around, and there is equal danger in not doing so. He feels trapped, like a mouse and his hand holding the phone starts to tremble, its circle of light quivering as it happens. His shoes feel like they’re made of lead but he braves on, gritting his teeth hard to hold back a scream that could possibly antagonise his stalkers. 

Like dealing with a T-rex. Maybe if he stays really still, they won’t - 

Two hands come down hard on Yuki’s shoulders and a silhouette, dark against the glow of the street light, fills his vision. Another pair of hands grabs his ankles and then he’s lifted off the ground, kicking frantically as they pull him towards the back of the building where it’s bare of people, lights and even the summer warmth characteristic to the season. 

It feels like he’s entered a vacuum, or an echo chamber of some sort. Where his screams make no sound and all he can hear is the “I’m going to die”s in his head. Yuki has never felt this terrified before. 

“What were you doing at the Utsuki’s place?” One voice questions him. It’s the guy holding him by the shoulders. 

“Visiting an old friend,” Yuki lies, his voice surprisingly stable despite the fear that’s clamped down on any coherent thought process. “Why’s it any of your business?” 

White-hot blinding pain stabs him straight in the teeth when a set of hard calloused knuckles meet his jaw and send his head snapping sideways. His body jerks with the motion, but he stays in place thanks to whoever’s wrapped their big arms around his neck, giving him just enough room to breathe but not move. 

“Don’t lie. You work with those detectives at their agency, don’t you?” 

Claws of ice drag themselves down Yuki’s spine at a painfully slow pace, making sure to dig in between each vertebra and inject cold dread into his nervous system. The impulses, blinking through his body at full speed in adrenaline and panic, circulate this chill throughout him and even in the warm weather, Yuki feels the agony of frostbite settling into his whole body. 

“How long have you been watching us?” He asks. 

“Since the case was handed to you.” 

Yuki finds it in himself to smile - he finds this amusing. To keep someone under your constant watch means two things: you’re either suspicious of them or scared of them. Given the circumstances, their detective agency must have really earned its name as one of the most formidable anti-crime forces in the city (not just among the law enforcement forces, but those on the opposite end as well) for someone to be so cautious and paranoid about their activities. 

He’s thrown right into a wall, where his head smacks violently and sends stars bursting into his vision. He can taste blood in his mouth and once again, the reality of the situation settles in and the weight of his fear slams into him right before the boot is driven into the small of his back. His knees buckle, and overcome with the dizzying pain, he crumbles and curls up on the stained ground. 

Yuki sees the bottom of a shoe hover right over his vision before a crowbar slams into the back of his assailants’ head and sends them keeling over. The attack, perpetrated by the second one, is cut off mid-swing as he aims for a punch by the newcomer, who sidesteps and judo-flips them right on top of their friend.

“Not much of a competition,” The boy muses, slamming his booted foot onto the peak of the human pile in front of him for a good measure. His tone drips with something that can be mistaken for arrogance, but Yuki sharply perceives it as it is - boredom. He took down two overpowered opponents, not because he saw someone in trouble, but because he didn’t have anything better to do. 

He bends over Yuki and Yuki instinctively shrinks away. In the faint light, he can discern a head of sandy brown hair knotted into a bun, and a pair of liquid blue eyes. He’s smiling with his teeth, eyebrows pulled together in a concerned expression. “You look like shit,” He notes, intelligently. “What’s a kid like you doing in this part of the city, anyway?” 

Yuki struggles to push his torso off the ground, propped up by his elbow. “Thanks for the help,” He manages, feeling the blood dribble down the corner of his mouth. There are patches of colours in his vision as the pain stings and ripples throughout his body. 

“I heard you were with the detectives working on the Utsuki case,” The boy continues. As he whispers, his voice is warm and hoarse, a pitch lower than it was a few seconds ago. A seriousness takes over his features as his smile disappears and a frown mars his strong and handsome features. “I’m telling you now, as I already told that other guy before the police arrived, you’re looking in the wrong place.” 

Yuki struggles into a sitting position and leans against the wall behind him. “ _What_ are you talking about? Who even are you?” 

The boy grins. “Banri Settsu. At your service.” He crouches down to Yuki’s level as he continues talking. “Those were the same guys that beat up your boss, by the way. They only did it to put him out of work for the time being. Might be misleading - make you think you found something, but it’s quite the opposite really. The opposition - or the real culprit - just seems really paranoid about you all - “ 

“And you know all this, how?” Yuki questions. 

“I’ve lived here pretty long,” Banri explains. “I know how these guys work. This place has been on strict lockdown since the shooting, probably because they don’t want anyone talking too much outside of here. You and your boss aren’t the only ones who - “ 

“He’s not my boss,” Yuki interrupts. 

“ - got targeted. They’ve been keeping the Utsuki family quiet too.” 

“That much is obvious,” Yuki grumbles, recalling the parents’ unwillingness to answer any question directly. “Are you going to give me useful information now or keep telling me shit I could have figured out myself?” Banri’s aggression is a contagious one, and Yuki catches himself by surprise when he finds himself mirroring it in his own speech. 

“The easiest way to prove Chikage’s innocence is to find out who did it,” Banri starts slowly, an amused smirk dancing on his lips in response to Yuki’s outburst. “To do that, you have to figure out who really pulled the trigger. Nobody plans out a murder like this without some sort of motive. The killing wasn’t random. Not all of them, at least.” 

“What the hell are you on about? Of course, it wasn’t - “ 

Banri presses a finger against Yuki’s lips, with a little more force than necessary. His eye twitches in irritation as he meets Yuki’s angry gaze. “Shut up, will you? Let me finish. The intervals between the shots - does anything not stand out to you?” He continues before Yuki can respond with another scathing remark. “There was a longer pause between the first and second targets as compared to the following targets. What does that tell you?” 

It feels like a gear has shifted into place and the wheels are turning. Yuki sits up immediately, in anticipation. “The second shot - the most important one - had to be done carefully. The shooter needed to aim, to make sure the shot would kill.” 

Banri smiles. “Bingo.” 

“So, all I have to do is investigate the second victim, and I’ll find the motive, and then I’ll find the real killer.” Yuki finally stands up, clenching his fists against the pain, as the pieces begin to fall in place and the fog in his brain clears up to reveal the yellow brick road to answers. 

Banri sighs, as he pushes himself up to his feet as well. “Well, glad to be of help. I’ll walk you back to the populated streets, just in case any of these goons try to jump you again.” Yuki doesn’t normally like to accept help. Due to his femininity he assumes that people tend to perceive him as feeble or incapable of handling himself, but this time, he gladly agrees. 

“One more thing,” Yuki begins and Banri hums in acknowledgement. “I want you to work on this case with me.”

Banri stops, mid-stride and turns around to shoot him an incredulous glare. “The hell are you talking about?” 

Yuki rolls his eyes, avoiding eye contact due to the embarrassment. “Look, this is a high-stakes case and it wouldn’t hurt to have a bodyguard, okay? Also, you’ve given me my only lead and saved my ass, so I sort of feel indebted to you. We can share the credit if we manage to solve it.” He finally looks up to meet Banri’s eyes. 

Banri’s expression is twisted with irritation and incredulity. Yuki doesn’t blame the guy - even he is surprised at his own request, considering he doesn’t like asking for help and much less trust a gangster to watch his back. But the few minutes spent in Banri’s presence, Yuki (being as perceptive as he is) has learned to speak the guy’s language.

“I absolutely _hate_ owing people favours,” He finishes and watches Banri’s expression melt into a more thoughtful one as he considers the offer. 

He sighs, finally. “Fine. But I expect to be paid.” 

Yuki, relief washing over him, finally loosens his tongue. “Yeah, I’ll help you by fixing your wardrobe first. Your fit is a disaster. I can see why you don’t even have a girlfriend.” 

“I’m not even into girls - _Hey, what’s that you said about my outfit?!_ ”

Yuki smiles innocently, and walks past him to the bus stop. 

  
  
  


It is decided that Yuki and Banri will skip school the next day and meet at the canal to talk about it. Banri doesn’t seem too concerned about his record; in fact, he mentions having skipped school multiple times already all under the excuse of crippling boredom in his classes. 

There’s a memorial that has been put up for all the victims - where their friends and family members have left little notes, flowers, and hung up pictures to identify their faces to their names. Yuki notes, with a growing sadness, at the tenderness of it all - like a swollen lump of misery and grief in broad daylight where any passerby is automatically reminded of the murdered. This used to be a pretty popular running and walking track, with well-maintained benches and trees and street lamps to add to its beauty.

Now, underneath all of that, it feels like a cemetery. Yuki can hear the residual screams of the victims and the squelching of flesh burned by a hot bullet. He can smell the invisible blood stains on the pavement, and hear the thumping of bodies hitting the ground. He can hear the child screaming as it falls out of their mother’s embrace when the bullet cuts through her neck. 

His phone rings with Azami’s number and he answers immediately. “Yes, what is it, Azami?” 

“I inquired about her just as you asked me to,” Azami responds. “She was on her way to the Ministry to have the Sumeragi Enterprises signed over to her company. They were a failing company at the time and her company was supposed to buy it to save their business, as a last resort. She never made it there.” 

“Thanks, Azami,” Yuki says, sincerely. “For finding out and covering for me at the agency.” 

“Dude, you know I can’t keep doing this for the whole week, right? You either finish off by today or you give it up and come back to work tomorrow,” Azami tells him. 

Yuki reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small ziploc bag he snagged from the evidence room that carries the bullet left behind on the scene - the one that wasn’t found inside a body. “It won’t take that long,” He promises Azami as he hangs up. 

Banri is sitting on the steps to the canal pavement, half-heartedly punching at his phone screen with his thumbs as he plays his game but he looks up when he hears Yuki approaching. 

“Come on,” Yuki says, nudging Banri with his foot and prompting him to stand up. “We’ve got one more place to visit. Then, we’re paying the CEO of Sumeragi Enterprises a visit.” 

* * *

  
  
Yuki isn’t sure how Itaru and Homare do this on numerous occasions - just walking confidently into the lion’s den to antagonise it and draw out a roar. The roar being a clear confession to catch on record. Somehow, without fail, they always manage to arrive at their desired outcome and win the day. He feels this swell of appreciation for them and their work - no matter how much of a pain in the ass they are, they’re good people and they’re good at their job. 

He’s holding the file with the receipts and post-its in one hand, clutching it tightly so that he can stop his hands from shaking. Detective work is no joke - it’s risky, and exhausting. But it’s also worth it. If anything, there’s nothing that Yuki wants more than to be one when he graduates. 

Banri taps his feet impatiently as they wait at the reception at the bottom of the Sumeragi company building. The CEO’s office is at the top floor, and he’s currently not free to take visitors. The receptionist keeps glancing at Banri from the side of her glances and Yuki turns to meet her gaze fiercely, just to watch her avert her eyes and blush all the way from her neck to her ears. 

Yuki scoffs. He doesn’t know what he should tell her first - that Banri is gay or that he is too young for her. 

“Sorry for making you do that,” Yuki says, his eyes involuntarily drifting to Banri’s swollen and badly bandaged knuckles, a result of their previous interview gone a bit awry when the interviewee acted up in paranoia after Yuki struck a nerve. He knows he should be a bit more tactful when speaking, but Banri was quick to mediate the situation expertly in his own manner so, Yuki concludes, all’s well that ends well. 

“Nothin’ to it.” Banri shrugs, and smiles at Yuki. “It was actually the most fun I’ve had in ages. You should invite me to follow you on your cases more often.” 

Yuki manages a small smile. “Well, if everything goes right, then you’re welcome to follow me on more.”

Banri nods wistfully, then freezes as his expression morphs into one of concern. “What do you mean ‘if’? What are you planning to do?” 

Yuki purses his lips. “The crime scene was a little too customised to frame Chikage, don’t you think? I don’t think anyone would be so careless to leave so many traces of themselves on the crime scene. The signs all blatantly pointed to Chikage so that the police had no choice but to arrest him. It was only when Itaru and Homare began investigating that - “ 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. We both have already established all that, but what’s that got to do with this?” Banri takes Yuki by the shoulder. “Yuki, something’s bothering you. You’re talking weird.” 

Yuki realises his lip is trembling. “I’m…” He pauses, and looks right at Banri, searches his face for any inkling of judgement or amusement. He finds none. “I’m scared,” He finishes, truthfully. “This is my first case. If you look at the way everything’s happened, whoever executed the plan was simply following orders from someone else. We are here to interview that someone else and…” His voice trails off. “It doesn’t matter what I think of those in power, but they will always terrify me.” 

Banri soaks all of this, in silence and grits his teeth, a sound that makes Yuki flinch. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” He promises, “because I’m here. If that old man so much as lifts a finger in a manner that doesn’t sit right with me - “ He slams his right fist into his left palm, “ - I’ll pummel him and put him in a hospital.” His face is twisted into one of anger and decisiveness.

“Mr Sumeragi will see you now,” The receptionist calls, handing them both visitors’ passes when they get up and approach the desk

“Thanks, love,” Banri says, not even casting her a look as he makes a beeline for the lift lobby. The receptionist’s blush spreads from her ears all the way to her forehead.

“He’s too young for you,” Yuki tells her, without missing a beat, as he walks away. “Also, he’s gay.” He can feel the receptionist scowl into the back of his head.

The lift doors open right into Mr Sumeragi’s office, and they both nearly walk into someone just about to leave. _Tenma Sumeragi_ , Yuki recalls from the multiple television ads. Just as famous as his father. He scoffs contemptuously at the two of them as he walks past them and into the lift, the doors closing on his scowl. 

Bastard, Yuki thinks. The famous are all so pig-headed.

“Good afternoon, how can I be of help today?” Mr Sumeragi asks, smiling politely at the two of them from behind his desk. 

“Why did you kill them?” Yuki asks.

No time for tact. He has to get straight to the point. 

“What?” Mr Sumeragi frowns. “What are you talking about?” 

“The people at the canal,” Yuki clarifies, clutching the folder in his hands tightly for comfort. “Why did you have to kill them to get what you want?” 

Mr Sumeragi’s frown deepens and he reaches over to his phone, but Banri steps in. “I wouldn’t waste time doing that, if I were you,” He warns. “The police will be here in ten minutes.” 

“This is a pretty serious accusation,” The man observes. “I hope you have the evidence to support your claims, because I will sue you both. I have you on my company’s cameras and I know your faces.” 

“You won’t get the chance to,” Yuki informs him. His voice is surprisingly steady even though his knees are seconds away from giving away. “I’m glad to see your company is doing well enough to employ lawyers, considering 2 weeks ago, it was struggling to pay minimum wage to its employees. What’s your secret?” 

“Business does depend on our consumers. There was a sudden preference for a product that sold well. What’s so hard to understand about that?” He sounds wounded, but there’s an urgency to his tone that makes the words come out faster than necessary. Yuki knows anyone in his position, even innocent, would respond the same, but with the evidence that he has, all the signs are pointing to Sumeragi’s guilt.

“No, that’s not the case,” Yuki points out carefully and calmly, finding a sick satisfaction in watching Sumeragi’s temple vein throb with impatience. “The funds to update your product according to customer preference from your surveys came from the illegal shipment of weapons across Japan’s borders. One of those being the murder weapon - the bullet shell left behind at the scene matches the kind used for the gun - “ 

“You must be mistaken,” Sumeragi interrupts. “Chikage Utsuki has already been found guilty - “ 

“Don’t digress,” Yuki snaps. “Worry about _yourself_. Chikage’s locks had been tampered with, which the police failed to consider because the evidence left behind so cleverly painted him as the killer. And there were no other leads at the time that could have proved Chikage’s innocence. The gun was planted in the boot of Chikage’s car.” He says this all in one breath, and inhales deeply and shakily. 

“Chikage is a shooter, yes, but he has only ever shot pellets from an air rifle in the competitions he represented Japan in. He has never shot a bullet in his life,” Yuki concludes. He reaches into the folder and pulls out the photocopied receipts. “Also, the purchase for the gun shipment that the weapon came with is registered to your wife’s name - using her maiden name, what more - but the payment came out of _your_ personal bank account.” 

“You kids are messing with matters that carry more responsibility than you can handle,” Sumeragi points out, slowly and coldly. 

“Nah, shut up!” Banri interrupts, scowling. “You’re just an old man in a suit with a big office. At the end of the day, you’re going to have to share Hell or, daresay, Heaven, with the commoners aren’t you? Give it up, already.” 

Sumeragi bends down, sighing as he rests his hand on the table for support and Yuki realises a second too late that his other hand has reached into the drawer to pull out a gun. “Get out of my office right now,” Sumeragi orders, as Yuki, frozen, stares right into the gun barrel, his hands shaking violently. This is the worst possible way that this confrontation could have gone. 

It’s funny that despite your entire conscience screaming for you to run, that’s the last thing you’re able to do in a crisis. Yuki’s muscles have seized up and the rain outside has frozen in place. He can hear the ticking of the extravagant grandfather clock in the corner, but its pendulum is stuck mid-swing just as the rest of the world is frozen around him. The only one capable of intelligent response is Banri.

He moves first, but only to put himself between Yuki and Sumeragi so that Yuki’s left staring into the middle of his shoulder blades under the t-shirt. With the gun barrel out of sight, Yuki aims to collect himself but now, he’s focused on a different matter - Banri standing between him and a bullet that could take out his life in a single shot. Yuki reaches and grips the back of Banri’s shirt, but the other boy doesn’t respond - his glare is fixed on the man in the suit. 

“You’re not touching him,” Banri growls. “Not as long as I’m around.” The decisiveness and threat in his tone scares even Yuki, who can’t seem to find his voice to speak and protest. All that bodyguard talk was simply in jest. This Banri guy is _insane_. 

“Get out of my office right now before I contact the police,” Sumeragi says. 

“You won’t shoot us,” Banri taunts. 

“You have no idea of what I will and won’t do,” Sumeragi threatens. “Get out right now. Leave that file here.” 

“If you’re going to shoot me, hurry up and do it, _pussy_ ,” Banri prompts. 

Sumeragi’s jaw clenches just as his trigger finger twitches but the bullet doesn’t have a chance to leave the barrel before the lift door behind them opens and spills the first responders on the scene, led by Homare, who swings his cane in a flourish to announce his entrance. “You have no longer any reason to fear, I am here! In the nick of time, too.” He holds up his phone to Yuki, to show the ongoing video call from Banri’s phone. “Smart move, Yuki. You learn fast, don’t you? The agency’s very own Nancy Drew.”

He endearingly knocks his knuckles onto Yuki’s head, and Yuki, overwhelmed with relief, slams into him to give him a hug. His knees are shaking and there’s sweat on the base of his neck and he’ll feel embarrassed in 20 seconds about the way he threw himself into Homare’s embrace but the relief is like cold water on his feverishly hot and tense muscles. He hears Homare’s chuckle rumble in his chest as he reaches out to cradle Yuki’s head in response. 

The hug lasts longer than Yuki expects himself to let it. But then, he pulls away just as abruptly and fervently avoids eye contact with Homare to watch handcuffs be slapped on Sumeragi’s wrists and the folder full of evidence taken into the police custody. 

“You did a good job,” Homare assures him, and then turns to Banri pointedly. “The both of you, I mean. Your methods were sort of crude and old fashioned but you used them well and got the job done.” 

“Thanks, I know,” Banri affirms, dismissively. As arrogant as ever. 

“Now,” Homare begins, seriously, “I hope you’re ready for the earful you’re going to get from Sakyo.” He laughs when Yuki groans in response. “Not to worry, dear Yuki, Itaru is just as proud of you as I am and he is very grateful, too, to you for pursuing the case on his behalf and following through till the end. After getting scolded by Sakyo, the two of us wish to treat you - the both of you - to dinner down at Swensen’s.” 

Banri pumps his fist triumphantly. “YES! Free food!” 

Homare leaves for a while to talk to the police and settle some administration matters so Yuki turns to Banri, eyes cast down at the floor. “What were you thinking, stupid? Jumping in front of the gun like that?” 

Banri hums in confusion. “Hey, I said I’d be your bodyguard, didn’t I? Plus, if he had shot at me, it would have been on record. Given the police another reason to arrest him - “ 

“You would have died,” Yuki reminds him. “Banri, you would have died.” 

“But you would have solved the case, right?” 

“That doesn’t…” Yuki’s voice trails off at the amused look on Banri’s face. 

“You do care!” Banri teases him, kneading Yuki’s scalp with his knuckles. Yuki shoves him away aggressively, protesting passionately against the statement. Banri laughs, then calms down enough to speak again. “This was the most fun I’ve had in ages, squirt. It’s the first real thrill I’ve felt in my seventeen years of living. I can’t thank you enough.” 

Yuki, despite himself, manages a small smile. 

* * *

Homare drops Yuki home before he drives back to the agency, offering to help Yuki postpone that scolding from Sakyo to the next day after he’s rested up and recovered from the heat of the chase. Yuki is hesitant in getting out and lingers a moment longer in his seat, the two of them sitting in expectant silence. 

“Yuki,” Homare starts finally, his voice taking a serious tone. This is a different tone - there’s some sort of finality to it. For someone who’s always used a somewhat airy and carefree manner of speaking, it’s rare for him to think so carefully about what he’s going to say next. Yuki braces himself and meets Homare’s eyes, startled to find a smile on the man’s face that is in equal parts enthusiastic and kind. 

Then, he says something that makes a sort of unbridled joy burst in Yuki’s chest. 

“I really, really look forward to working with you. Please continue to work with us at the agency after you graduate, won’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- well, it's not as intense as the previous chapters (at least I think it isn't) but I still hope you enjoyed it either way  
> \- this is the last real chapter before the epilogue (which should come out soon, maybe sometime tomorrow) and i'll write a more eloquent farewell note then. thank you for reading thus far anyway, hope you all look forward to the finale!


	4. Epilogue: Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the final chapter! thanks for sticking with me.  
> \- as usual, ignore my typos I promise I usually write better than that  
> \- NO WARNINGS! this is a lighthearted and warm chapter for a little bit of healing after the intense main story ones.

It is the night of the eclipse, and the moon has turned into a blood stain in the sky. There is a prickling texture to the wind as it blows, whistling gently as it files through the lit city streets. Yuki pulls up in the parking lot of the white-stained-yellow building that he’s come to know so well. He’s hit with the faint smell of burning rubber as he lowers the window to drink the sight in, despite having spent a few good years here as the intern already. A new and crumpled speeding ticket lies on his dash. 

The door of the building opens, spilling its sickly yellow light of the lobby onto the faded grey steps as a shadow takes shape into a familiar silhouette. Yuki suppresses an excited grin at the sight of Homare’s kind, expectant smile as he waves to his junior. Yuki kills the engine, throws open the door and moves to collect his stuff from the car’s trunk. Homare joins him. 

“It’s been a while, Yuki,” Homare says. 

Yuki wants to mention that it didn’t feel like a while - it felt like an eternity, especially after he had to give up his internship upon joining college and classes taking up all his time. He missed the musty cardboard scent of the office, he missed eavesdropping on Homare and Itaru’s argument on a case, and he missed running errands for them. “Don’t crowd me,” He says instead, a little more explosively than necessary. 

Homare chuckles and offers to carry some of the boxes. “We missed you too, Yuki. I suspect college went well.” 

Yuki groans at the memory. “Not really.” He notices the idiot’s absence as they reach the lobby. “Where’s Itaru?” 

“He’s still up in the office and in case he does not quite phrase it right, I’ll say it on his behalf - he is very proud of you. Just as much as I am,” Homare promises. Yuki feels warm, despite the chilly night wind that blows through the lot but doesn’t say anything. 

He sees Azami at the front desk and smiles at the familiar sight. Everything about this just feels like a homecoming. 

The office is quite a sight - not really a welcoming one. White sheets are covering the desks and there are paint stains where they shouldn’t be. Itaru is sitting on the stool in the corner, a handkerchief tied around his head, and paint stains dotting his clothes and torso and his Switch in his hand. The pungent smell of construction smell has covered the usual cardboard-y scent of the room. Sakyo is sitting behind his desk, looking more than just disgruntled. 

He looks livid. 

“What’s going on here?” Yuki whispers to Homare. 

“We are refurbishing the office,” Homare responds, his voice weighed with exasperation. “You see, this was supposed to happen before your arrival but Itaru skipped on it, and we only just managed to hire a contractor - of sorts, that is - to come and help us out.” Yuki suppresses a snort at the way Homare side-eyes his colleague. 

Itaru hums dismissively, still focused on his Switch. 

“Good to see you, too,” Yuki states expectantly, directing this towards Itaru who mumbles a distracted “Yeah” in response. Just as much of a gaming addict as ever. 

Nothing’s really changed here but this is comforting to Yuki. His fear - the one that followed him through his years in college - was that the agency was a one-time thing. There are a lot of phases that collectively create your diverse life experience. What you think is an endgame destination could turn out to be a momentary thing - something you grow out of and realise it’s not what you wanted anyway. 

Yuki thought the agency would be the same - that it won’t be or feel the same when he finally officially joined as an employee. That maybe this place is meant to be enjoyed by him as an intern. 

But it’s comforting to know that it’s not like that. He seems to have melted back into the picture here as if he never left. 

“Welcome back, Rurikawa,” Sakyo says, when he finally calms down enough to greet the newcomer. “You can put your belongings in the hall while we wait for the work here to be done -  _ Chigasaki, get your ass off that chair right NOW! _ ” He cuts off in the middle of his welcoming speech to chide Itaru. 

He passes Itaru on the way out and jumps when Itaru’s hand comes down on his shoulder. But when he looks up, he’s startled to see Itaru’s expression melted into something akin to joy and relief. Then, he speaks and like every other time that Yuki knows him for, his gesture - though belated - makes its mark. 

_ “Welcome home, Yuki.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- i was initially planning to make this a pretty intense but I decided not to. this is more of a thank you for sticking with this story so far despite how roughly it was written and for letting me practise massive amount of artistic liberty.  
> \- Like i said, i mostly wrote this story for fun because some of my mutuals on twitter put the detective idea into my head and I just couldn't let it go. I hope it was just as fun to read and that every chapter lived up to your expectations.  
> \- Thank you for supporting my writing, it really means a lot and look forward to more of it in the time to come!
> 
> till then, you're free to contact me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/noyabf)  
> 


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